The Last Thing You Say
by vega rin
Summary: Self-imposed blindness can last only so long. A Dean story. [COMPLETE]
1. Pros, Cons, and Tolstoy

The Last Thing You Say  
By Vega

Rate: PG-13  
Spoiler: General second season.  
Summary: Self-imposed blindness can last only so long. A Dean story.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters, but only having some fun with them. I promise to return them in good health.  
Note: I like Dean, I _adore_ Dean, and the way he's been degraded on the show lately got me riled enough to do this. ;)

1: Pros, Cons, and Tolstoy

* * *

How many times can a man turn his head,  
and pretend that he just doesn't see?  
- Bob Dylan "Blowing in the Wind"

* * *

There was something odd about Tolstoy that made him think about the concept of willful blindness.

The enlightenment came to him, of all places, at the school. To be more specific, just after his English Lit. Class, en route to his locker. Dean stared down at an old copy of _War and Peace_ with irritation that almost bordered on contempt. The class had been going just fine until Mr. Jones brought in a box full of _War and Peace_ as their next text to read. Why Tolstoy, dammit? Tolstoy, one of the first books he had read for Rory's sake. He had no intention of devoting hours of his time to it again. What had he gotten out of it anyway other than the fact that War was bad and Peace was good, and Russian names were too excruciating to remember? He would never have ventured into this part of literature if it weren't for Rory; she could make him do just about everything. This week, she was going to make him read _The Sun Also Rises_.

The copy handed to him was almost antique-old. The cover page was ready to be ripped off, wrinkle and discoloration becoming permanent features. It also had the particular scent of paper and dust that was partial to old books, something he, to his amazement, did not find unpleasant any more. If he were to be honest, yes, he would confess that he had actually enjoyed the book. After a painful hundred pages or so, he had discovered something more in this Russian saga, something that Rory had made him admit after a particularly nice kiss all so long ago.

So it wasn't Tolstoy he had a problem with. It was something else entirely.

A few weeks ago, any kind of Rory-related memory would bring out a smile on his face. Now, he felt as if the collar of his shirt was suffocating him. Since when had he begun to feel this way?

He did not know the answer. Of course he didn't. This was the benefit of suffering from willful blindness.

"Hey," someone spoke.

Dean didn't look up to see who was talking to him, because it didn't matter, because he didn't care. He threw a dismissive "Hey" to the general direction and proceeded directly to open his locker.

Tolstoy was thrown into, and Algebra text and a calculator made out from the small locker space to the world. When he turned around, he saw that the person who had spoken to him was still waiting for him to turn to her.

"Dean, right?" she asked with a grin.

"Yeah." He regarded the girl for the first time. The first thing he noticed was her height. She was tall, supermodel-tall, which explained why he didn't have to crank his neck to look down like he had to do with Rory and almost every other girl in the school. And that she was quite pretty, with long blond hair and the attitude that went with it. Ah yes, this was the new girl Todd had been talking about. Adrinana? Amanda? Ashley? He couldn't recall.

"Amanda," she supplemented, noticing his dilemma. "It's Amanda."

All right, so Amanda it was. "Hi," he replied out of courtesy than anything else. "What do you want?"

She arched her eyebrow as if that wasn't quite what she'd expected. Dean knew the type; she had expected him to throw himself at her feet, entranced by her 'beauty' in a matter of second. Well, too bad. He wasn't interested.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said with a faint, confident smile, "there is something I need to ask you. You seem to be the only one in this whole town who I can dance with while wearing high heels. And I really like my high heels." He blinked, and she smiled. "So, come to the Dance with me next week."

First thought: there's a dance next week? Second thought: she's asking me out? He'd been stamped with the word "Taken" on his forehead for so long in this town that this sort of thing had reached extinction. Dean stared, unsure how to formulate a 'no' answer to her direct request. "I have a girlfriend."

"I heard. Goes to Chilton, real brainy. This doesn't have to be a date," she said in the manner that could only be described as 'coy'. "And your girlfriend doesn't have to know."

He met her gaze, but not because he was tempted. He was remembering how nervous Rory had been when she asked him out to the dance last year. Rory would never be like this, he thought, never this coy, never this direct. He remembered the sweet tension that always seemed to radiate from her whenever she was near him, the way her face lit up when she saw him, the way she babbled on with no period in between. The things that he hadn't seen from her for a long, long time. The things that he now had begun to suspect that he might never see again.

Yes, that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Sorry," he said, trying his best not to sound rude, "I don't do dance."

She looked stung, which added up his guilt, but she shrugged away and forced a light voice, "I'll be around if you change your mind." Dean watched her walk away, and he, too, turned away.

By the end of the day, the whole school knew what happened. Todd: "Heard you blew off Amanda McCall. You've some guts. Rory that sweet?" Lane: "Of course I knew Amanda had it for you, everybody knew. She's been orging on you ever since she got here. I pay attention -- sorry, the best friend obligation." He brushed them off with absent nods and good-byes, and headed back home.

Back home, walking past the bus stop bench where he had waited for Rory so many times before, where he was supposed to meet her today, where she was supposed to convince him to read The Sun Also Rises, knowing she was not waiting for him.

* * *

He didn't have to go to Luke's Diner. It wasn't like Luke's was the only place with coffee. But of course, it was the only place with decent coffee that he had come to like, thanks to Rory and Lorelai. He looked through the window of the diner. Jess was nowhere in sight, and only Luke was working behind the counter. There was a line-up, and Luke seemed extremely busy.

What the hell. Dean turned the knob and entered.

"Hey," he greeted Luke, approaching the counter when his turn arrived.

The only acknowledgement he'd gotten from Luke was a brisk nod at his direction. Right. Luke was never big on him, Dean knew. He remembered the blow-off's they had before. Luke was never happy about Dean going out with Rory. Dean had thought it was understandable, Luke trying to play a protective father to Rory. It had been rather irritating, yes, but Dean had accepted that. Now, though, Dean wished Luke was doing a better job. If Dean was Rory's father, he wouldn't let a guy like Jess anywhere near her.

But then again, Jess _was_ Luke's nephew, wasn't he?

"Coffee, please," Dean asked, trying to sound cheerful. "How's it going?"

"Just peachy."

Well, at least Luke was in his old sarcastic self. While Luke was getting his coffee, Dean turned around, glancing across the diner. And that was when he saw Jess coming down the stairs. Oh crap.

Their gazes met. Dean could feel his face literally stiffen, but Jess betrayed no emotion. Jess leaned against the wall, and only seemed to consider leisurely whether to acknowledge Dean or not.

This was ridiculous. Dean bit back his temper. "Hey."

"Hey," Jess replied coolly, just as expected.

They stood like that for a moment, awkward air thick between them. Dean was about to go 'To hell with damn coffee' and walk out, but just then, his eyes caught something Jess was holding in his hands.

A book. It looked strangely familiar.

Before Dean asked Jess where he got it, Luke handed him a cup of coffee in one terse gesture. "Here," he spoke briskly, already ready to move onto the next customer, "You got what you want, now get out."

So what if this was just regular grouchy Luke, saying what he said to everyone (save for Lorelai), treating Dean like he did to everyone (save for Lorelai)? Dean felt unreasonable anger overwhelm him, and when he spoke, he no longer cared about appropriateness or manners of any kind.

"I know you don't like me, Luke. I know you're only looking out for Rory, and I get that. But, tell me one thing, just one thing, that I ever did to hurt her and you know that it wasn't me who broke up with her the last time. You know that. So tell me, have you ever seen me do something intentionally to hurt her? Do you think I ever will?" Even before surprise was registered in Luke's face, Dean grabbed the coffee, whirled around, and walked out of the diner.

He grabbed the cup so tight that the hot coffee popped out of it and almost burned his hands.

He didn't feel a thing.

* * *

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Dean. I was supposed to meet you at the bus stop today, wasn't I? Were you waiting for long?"

Dean stood up, brushing dust off his pants. An hour of sitting on Rory's porch did that to his jeans. "No, I didn't," he lied.

Rory's face lit up with a smile. God, she was beautiful. "I'm a terrible girlfriend, aren't I?" she came to his side and took his arm, "It was just that Paris set up a paper meeting at the last minute. Everybody was starved and wanted to go home for dinner, but then she made us eat this god-awful casserole instead of..."

She was talking energetically as usual, her smile bright and her voice even brighter. But he heard nothing of what she said.

"Rory," he abruptly cut her off, "Did you mean what you said?"

Rory looked puzzled. "About the casserole? Of course, I mean"

"What you told me last summer."

Rory stopped and stared. She was smart. He knew she would figure out what he meant.

And she did. He could read her expression as realization slowly dawned on her. "Of course I did. Dean, what brought this on? If this about last night? Because I told you, the article was due today and--"

He shook his head. This was pointless. "You know what, Rory? It doesn't matter. I'm just here to pick up the book."

Rory blinked. "The book?"

"_The Sun Also Rises_? You wanted me to get a taste of Hemingway, remember?"

"Oh god, I totally forgot." She looked startled, suddenly becoming jumpy like a rabbit in the Wonderland. "Oh god, I totally, totally forgot. It's...well, I mean, uh, Lane came in the other night and she said she needed it, because her English teacher suddenly turned all 'Death and all those things Hemingway,' so I just, you know, gave it to her. I'm so sorry." Rory made a bad liar. She always did.

Frustration was so overwhelming that he felt like he was choking on it. "So Jess just happened to have the same copy that you have, and Jess just happened to read The Sun Also Rises the day you were supposed to give it to me." Rory's eyes were big as Lake Ohio, with what he could read to be surprise and guilt. He couldn't stand this. "Why do you have to lie to me, Rory?"

Guilt was still there in her face, but there was something else in her face, something that resembled resignation. "Because I knew you would be angry, knew you would be like this. I let him borrow it because he really seemed to love Hemingway, that's all. Come on, Dean, don't be like this."

Don't be like what? he almost yelled, but he bit his lips and swallowed the words. Had to put his emotions in check. Angry outbursts weren't going to help anyone. "I love you, Rory," his voice was calm, just the opposite of how he felt. "And because I do, you've always been my priority. Not my mom, not my sister, not my family. It's always been you. You, on the other hand..." he took a deep breath, "What am I to you, Rory? You have Lorelai, Harvard, and now Jess. Do I even come in as one of the top five?"

"This is not fair, Dean. You can't say I don't appreciate you just because I have other priorities. I cannot love you the same way you do, Dean, but that doesn't mean you can judge it and say it like that, like, like..."

He felt a weary grin on his face. "Like you don't love me?"

She looked stung. "Dean..."

"Rory, I don't want to be like this any more, like a stupid jealous prick. I don't want to stand in your way. I...I can't just wait around for you to hurt me again."

A pause, then: "Are you breaking up with me?"

There it was, the final question. Her lips quivered, and her huge, beautiful eyes began to tear up. He remembered the first time he'd seen her, a girl with amazing concentration, the girl who stole his heart at the first glance. He remembered every moment, every taste of her lips, every leap of his heart when he saw her smile. He wanted to say no. God, he wanted to say no.

But he was no longer blind, was he? He would liked to have stayed blind, but it was no longer possible. Damn Tolstoy.

Dean shut his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "No, you are breaking up with me. The town people would scream 'bloody murder' if they think I dumped you for the second time," he managed a tired smile, "Let's just keep the story this way, Rory. You're breaking up with me."

"But I'm not," she protested, "I love you."

She really was a terrible liar, not because she was lying, but because she was forcing herself to completely, surely, whole-heartedly believe she loved him. He would laugh if he had any strength. "No, you don't," he reached out and touched a streak of her hair. It smoothly slipped between his fingers. It never stayed. "And you know it."

She tried to speak, she really did, but nothing seemed to come out. "Dean," her voice trembled, "I..."

She was never going to be able to say it. So, this was it. The end.

He kissed her on her forehead, looked into her eyes for the last time, then turned away.

"Goodbye, Rory."

He walked away, like how he was supposed to do. This was the right thing to do, for both of them. Someone had to end this, right?

It wasn't the last thing he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was - oh hell, what was the use?

Damn Tolstoy. Damn it all.

Because, goddammit, he still loved that girl.


	2. Constarches and the End of All Good Thin...

2: Constarches and the End of All Good Things

* * *

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it, and it darts away.  
- Dorothy Parker  


* * *

Dean was thinking about moving.

A day had passed, yet no one was screaming "Carry!" or throwing stones at him. Which was a good sign, he supposed, but he remembered what had happened the last time; this small town really knew how to ostracize people.

So, rather than waiting in fear, he just might as well move away from Stars Hollow. Never mind his father's business was here, his mother loved this small town like her second home, and his sister would kill him first if he mentioned anything that remotely resembled 'moving outta town' possibility. He really wanted to get the hell away from this place. Actually, he now believed they should never have come here in the first place. Then he would never have to have experienced this painful sinking feeling in his chest. This whole stupidity would never have occurred. He would never have met Rory.

Today, the work in the market was going slow with almost no customers, which distracted his mind even more. His hands were slowly and automatically moving to stack cornstarch cans. Cornstarch. He had kissed her here. In this aisle.

Just one more reason to get out of here.

"Dean!"

He turned to the source of the voice, and almost dropped the cans he was holding. Of course, the first one to come to him yielding an ax had to be the mad, raging mother. He braced himself for what was to come. "Lorelai," he cringed.

"Heya!" she gave him a broad smile that lit her entire face, "Up for tonight? The Princess Bride, the wonder of the modern cinema, is impatiently waiting for us."

Dean stared with a bit of amazement as Lorelai stood in front of him, bouncing with energy and waving a case of video. At her foot was a basket full of chocolate and disgusting amount of chips.

"What?" Dean asked finally, shell-shocked.

Lorelai waved her index finger. "Hello? Friday movie night? Don't look so surprised. I mean, it's not like I need to get the water changed or anything..." she took one look at him, and sighed dramatically, "So what if I need to get the water bottle changed? It's just a tiny little favor that I know a big-hearted boy like you would not mind at all. Think of it as taxes. You date my daughter, and I tax your labor. And I'll have you know that Rory's worth much more than water-change action. Actually, there's a leak somewhere in the house... Dean?"

"Rory hasn't told you yet, has she?" Of course. That explained many, many things.

"Told me what?" Lorelai, in her cheery self.

This was just great. How was he supposed to tell her this? "Lorelai, I don't think I'll be going to your house any time soon."

"Why?" she smirked, "Did you guys fight for the niceness that is in the make up smooches?"

"Actually--"

"Oh wow, two serious fights in two days? A breaking-record, indeed. I know you two love taking teenager angst to Shakespearean stage, but this is reaching Dante's scope of torture and darkness."

He restrained the urge to grab her shoulders and shake them hard, "Lorelai!"

"What? Oh, hey, did Rory tell you you're kinda scary when you're all frowning and towering and all in the likeness of Mad Josh Hartnett?"

"Lorelai..." God, this was difficult. "Rory and I...well, we're not together any more. So, I think that's going to make joining the movie night with you and Rory a tad bit more difficult from now on."

"Why? Wait, WHAT? What...why? WHAT?"

Confusion and shock were never a good mixture on Lorelai. "I think," he swallowed, wanting to turn away from her ashen face, "I think you know why."

Understanding immediately dawned on her face. "Oh god, Dean..."

He smiled wearily, "What, no 'You hurt my daughter, jackass!' rampage? I thought you'd come after me with an ax."

She shook her head, and he shuffled his foot. Silence settled between them.

"I'm sorry," he began quietly, "I know I promised you I'd never hurt her, but...it's better this way, trust me. Anyway, uh," he motioned at Taylor, who was watching them like a hawk. "I better get back to work. I think I'm about to get fired."

"Well, it's...I mean," Lorelai frowned. "I don't know what to say."

He had wondered before if he would ever see Lorelai speechless. Well, he didn't have to wonder now. "It's all right. People fall out of love all the time, don't they?"

The same weary smile was on her face now. "Wow, since when are you a cynic?"

"Since yesterday." She was watching his face intently, so he turned away. "You can always ask Jess to change the water from now on, so there won't be a problem for you." So what if he sounded bitter and petty? He had a right to be, dammit.

"Hey, I don't just let anyone change my water, you know," there was a soft sympathy in her voice that touched his heart. She gently squeezed his shoulder. "You know I like you, right?"

He looked down, because there was a hot lump in his throat and he couldn't meet her eyes. They had come a long way. He remembered the way Lorelai had made a warning/disclaimer when he'd first joined the mother-daughter movie night; she practically threatened to beat him with a shovel if he ever hurt Rory. Then, amazingly, they had become like a family. "Yeah, I know."

"And it's not because you made my daughter the happiest girl in the world on several occasions."

He swallowed the lump. "I wonder."

"Well. ...Well."

What else was there to say? No need to tell her to take care of Rory, because he knew she would. He didn't want the last thing he told Lorelai to be a goodbye. "See you around, then."

"Yeah." She hesitated for a moment, then turned around.

He watched after her for a second before resuming to unpack the boxes. One, two, three, four. The cornstarch suddenly felt heavy in his hands. His throat was dry.

"Lorelai!"

She immediately whirled around. "Yeah?"

"I'll miss you, too."

She looked stunned for a second, then smiled. "You're always welcome to change my water."

He shook his head. "Rory won't like it."

"She'll just have to deal. Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"If you need to talk--"

A year ago, talking to Lorelai Gilmore, the coolest mother alive, about his problems would've been a laughable idea. Now? "Thanks," he said, and he meant it.

Then she was gone.

Leaving him alone with many cornstarches, and more memories.

* * *

Dean had thought, secretly, that Rory may come to talk to him out of the break-up. He had thought that he would be worth at least another try, that he would matter to her at least that much. He had thought, if that ever happened, he would probably say yes and go back to her in an instant, that there would be no stopping him.

It didn't happen.

Exactly a week later, he saw them together standing on the street. They weren't standing close enough to touch, but close enough to look into each other's eyes. There was a tiny smile on her face that had once been reserved only for him. Then she saw Dean. As if she was burned, she jumped away from Jess, her face red, her eyes almost ready to break into tears.

He clenched his teeth, and with stiff body and even more stiff grin walked through the street without turning around his head toward her or beat the crap out of Jess.

You're doing fine, he told himself.

You're doing just fine.

* * *

Next day he told Amanda he would accompany her to the dance. She asked if it was going to be a date, already knowing what happened with him and Rory. And he said yes, not without hesitation, but with a slight feeling of malice.

Of course, by the end of the afternoon the whole school knew about it, and by the end of the day, he was sure, everyone in town would know. He decided he didn't care.

Lane came looking for him in the chem lab in her cheerleader outfit, her face red from running. She must've gotten here as soon as she'd heard, he thought.

Dean felt more than tired. "Lane, I swear to God, if you're here to lecture me on the punishment for infidelity, save it, because--"

Lane interrupted him, blushing furiously, "No, Dean. I...well, I just wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened."

Crap. He closed his eyes briefly. "Me, too."

Her eyes searched something in his face, "She's devastated, you know."

He desperately wanted to believe that, but he knew better. "No, she isn't."

Lane looked stricken. "Dean--"

Really, he didn't need Rory's Mom or Rory's best friend trying to make him feel better. He forced a light voice, "People fall out of love all the time. These things happen, don't they?" Although, in his case, he was never going to be certain whether or not she was ever really in love with him.

Always chatty Lane seemed to have lost her voice. She looked down at her feet, and he at his own. Silence settled in and began to suffocate him yet again.

"You coming to dance?" he finally said, looking for something to say.

Lane shook her head wearily, "Me? Going to a dance? Mom's decided that dance equates booze, drugs, and all the vermin of the world."

"At a school dance?"

"Unfortunately, the first American movies she watched were the teenager prom movies where spiking the punch led to devastating results."

She gave him a small grin, and he returned the sentiment.

"Lane."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry things didn't work out with Henry."

A slight tremble in her voice and concealed pain behind a forced smile. "Me, too."

He wondered if he had looked just like Lane when he'd said the same thing a minute ago.

That night at the dance, everyone looked at Dean with envy, and Amanda with jealousy. He and Amanda were, to his surprise, crowned as the best couple. For some strange reason, no one seemed to remember that he just broke up with Rory, the town's favorite bella.

He walked Amanda home from the dance. She kissed him on the porch, so he kissed her back.

Then he promptly apologized.

He came to his garage yard rather than home, feeling ill in his throat. He watched the car he had been working on for the last few weeks; he had hoped to build a better one, maybe to impress Rory's Grandfather. He stayed sitting for thirty minutes, staring at the car.

Then he grabbed a baseball bat and knocked down every piece of it.

* * *

Dean thought the life was going to continue this way. Just as dull as it was painfully bleak. So, with no more car to break into pieces, driving out of the town in the middle of the night with no particular destination on mind seemed to be an easy substitute, a cheaper substitute from breaking, let say, his CD player.

Everything was silent, and dark. His was the only car on the road. He was alone in the world for all he knew. In the darkness of the night, he was alone. He liked that. Way too much.

When he was about to contemplate on exactly why he had to enjoy solitude all of a sudden, he saw a spot of light moving close to his direction. It became larger and larger, until Dean could recognize the shape of a car parked at the side, and a man who was in elbow-deep under the open hood. It didn't seem like the man was having much luck.

He checked the watch. 1:25. The man was in trouble. Stars Hollow was the only town in fifty-mile radius, and still it was miles away. Dean stopped his car and got out, taking out a flashlight in his hand.

"Hey man, you need help?"

"God, yes, I so do--"

When Dean saw the man's face under the hazy light of the flashlight, he doubted his eyes. But then, the man, too, froze, recognition obvious on his face.

Oh, damn freaking luck. Should've known this midnight drive thing was a mistake.

They were both silent for a moment at this incredible coincidence, and finally Dean said, trying to keep annoyance in this voice to minimal, "Aren't you supposed to be at a military school or something? What the hell are you doing here?"

Tristan, with shorter hair and taller height than Dean remembered, took a long look at his own car, himself, and Dean. Probably deciding he should might as well talk to the only other person in ten-mile radius, Tristan said, "Yes, well, I took a wrong turn at the wrong place."

"Where were you heading?"

"Hawaii."

Despite himself, Dean almost grinned. Oh well, he thought, might as well. He went around Tristan to take a look under the hood of the car.

Tristan squinted his eyes doubtfully at him. "Think you can fix this?"

"I'm a poor barnboy, remember? I grew up fixing these things when you were feeding on caviar. Here," Dean said, handing him the flashlight, "Hold this here."

Dean thought he'd just leave him here if Tristian made any kind of protest gesture, but Tristan complied in silence. Being Samaritan was supposed to be a good thing, right? Damn karma.

A long moment of fruitless search and smudged shirtsleeves later, Dean gave in. "I don't know where you rented this, but this car," he declared, "is a piece of crap."

Tristan seemed ready to throw punches at anything that was near. However, he also seemed to be smart enough to figure out immediately that a) they both hated each other's guts with passion, b) his car was never going to work, c) it was the middle of the night in nowhere town, and d) Dean had the only working car.

"Okay," Tristan said, dislike obvious in his voice. "Now what?"

Dean stared back. He still hated Tristan. He still hated him, right?

Oh hell.

Dean whirled around and got into his car without a word. Tristan only watched, his hands in his jacket pockets, standing as if he was cruising the streets of New York. Dean turned on the ignition. Tristan still just watched.

"C'mon," Dean shouted with irritation. "You gonna just stand there all night?"

There was nothing on Tristan's face for a moment, then his lips twisted into a grin. Silently, Tristan slipped into the passenger seat.

"Let's make one thing clear," Dean said as soon as Tristan got in, "There will be no conversation whatsoever. I'll give you a ride, but that's it. You'll keep your mouth shut, and we will not talk. We're not pals, we were never pals, and we'll never become pals, clear enough?"

Tristan's lips twitched again. "Crystal."

Oh hell, Dean thought.


	3. Of the Saviors and the Losers, Cigarette...

Expectation is a scary thing. This was supposed to be a short fic, but now it has become a life story. Thanks for all the wonderful feedback. Am very happy to know that I'm not alone in the Deanland. ;)

3: Of the Saviors and the Losers, Cigarettes and Beer.

* * *

Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,  
And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream.  
-George Linley, "Thou Art Gone"

* * *

The jet-black silence of the dark wood outside the car was nothing compared to the heavy silence inside. Of course, this didn't bother Dean a bit. This was how it was going to be for the next thirty minutes. Get The Jackass to the town, then Dean would be off to his own, peaceful night of exorcising his own demons. This was nothing. This was just a thirty-minutes of detour, that was all. Not an impediment.

Of course, this couldn't have not been a mistake.

Tristan, who had been looking out the window for the first two minutes, had begun to fidget in his seat three minutes later. Five minutes later he was actively looking into Dean's CD collection, stereo, and everything that was within his arm's reach. Tristan surprisingly had a good sense of not really messing with Dean's stereo itself, but when he decided to venture into the glove compartment instead, Dean's patience reached its limit.

"Cut it out," Dean hissed, closing the cover with a bang.

Tristan put his hands up in mock-surrender, "Thought you were the one with the no-talk policy."

In Dean's mind, there were a few ways to handle this situation. A) Ignore Tristan and curse the fate, B) Kick him out--literally, C) Kill him and dump the body. Dean thought C was the most appealing of the moment, but also very much illegal. Dean decided to opt for A, surprising himself.

Tristan shut up, but that lasted exactly twenty seconds. "You have PJ Harvey."

So had really gone the no-talk rule, Dean thought with irritation. "And? So? Therefore?"

"You actually like PJ Harvey?"

"No, I keep two of her CDs for decoration purposes. What do you think?"

Tristan stared at him for a moment, expression inscrutable, but soon turned away. Why did the fact Dean had PJ Harvey in his car mattered to Tristan? Dean didn't know, he had no wish to know, but this suddenly chastened Tristan bothered him.

And the heavy silence that didn't bother Dean a a minute ago, for some reason, began to bother him too.

"You're supposed to be away at some school," Dean said, cursing fate now and again, "Why are you out? Did you escape or something?"

"I was in the military school, not prison."

Dean snorted. "And the difference being?"

"Point taken."

"So?"

Tristan's lips twitched. "I escaped."

Hardly freaking har-har. "What the hell are you doing here, then? The last time I checked, Hawaii is not this way, and neither is Disneyland." Tristan said nothing in reply, which was enough of an answer already. Dean could easily guess. "Don't tell me, you came to see her."

"Alright, I won't."

Jackass. And just what was stopping Dean from going for the option C? Samaritan thing? Maybe. Karma? Maybe. Murdering someone being illegal in this country? Oh yeah, the last one sounded remarkably like the answer.

"Stop with the murderous glare thing," Tristan made a dismissive hand gesture, "I'll have you know that I am not here to steal your girlfriend."

"She's not mine to steal from."

Dean felt Tristan freeze, felt his surprise. Dean said nothing. There had been no need, no need, to tell Tristan this little tidbit, but oh well. Anyway, after a day in Stars Hollow even Tristan would find it out soon enough. What difference did it make?

And it was the truth. Rory was no longer his. Stating it out loud was supposed to help. It didn't.

"What the hell are you saying?"

Tristan seemed to turn red-hot on the face, and Dean felt himself turning cooler, colder, freezing to the core of his very being. "You heard me. She's not mine to steal from. So if you're thinking this is a god-given chance to give a go at Rory, I wish you all the luck in the world."

Tristan searched Dean's face, anger that had flared in his eyes slowly deflating. Dean, silent, reached for the stereo. After a long, futile series of attempts to find a station that wasn't dedicated to Soft Rock, Easy Listening for the 30's, or America's Best Country Music, he inserted PJ Harvey.

There had been times when Dean had believed with foolish confidence that he would not, could not, be in a cotton candy bubblegum love that such popular music stations advocated. Sure, Rory was his first love, but it didn't mean he had to be in the N'sync Love, the Backstreet Boys Love, or God forbid, Britney Spears Love. He had fooled himself to be in a love that was of Shelley, as taught by Rory. He had fooled himself to be in the love of T.S. Eliot scale. And what this love had ended up being was of PJ Harvey--some parts depressing, some parts painful, some parts bittersweet, but overall, true. He supposed that was the truth. He still didn't know what love was, but he had loved Rory Gilmore.

It was over now.

"There's someone else in the picture, isn't it?" Tristan spoke eventually, his voice tight, "And he stole her right in front of your eyes."

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel. "If you're that inclined to walk to Hawaii, be my guest."

Silence.

"Yes," Dean said finally. His jaw tightened. "That's exactly what happened."

He'd expected Tristan to laugh, dance, sneer, all the things that he bet Tristan had wanted to do since.

But Tristan, after a moment of mute silence, only said, "Then that bastard's done something I could never have."

That was unexpected, Dean thought. No Na-Na-Na-Na-Na? Not even feigned sympathy? Just an admission, with frightening honesty that was bound to scare guys like Tristan...and Dean himself. Dean did not know what to say.

Thankfully, he didn't have to; he saw the familiar streets of Stars Hollow getting closer and closer. Dean collected himself. He navigated through the main street as quietly as he could muster. "I can't offer you a place to crash for the night," Dean said quietly, "but I can drop you off at an inn."

Tristan didn't object. When the car came to a full stop in front of the only proper inn they had, coincidentally where the mother of the girl who they were both in love with managed, it was nearing three a.m. Dean turned off the engine, and they were left without any sound. No sound of the low humming of the car, or the voice of PJ Harvey.

Tristan, after a few seconds of hesitation, opened the door. "Look--"

Dean saved Tristan from the pain of having to thank him, "Yeah, got it. Just go."

Tristan walked out. Good riddance, Dean thought. He was finally alone. Alone, alone, alone. Thank God. Nothing would deter him from the path to the night of lone introspection.

The road ahead of him seemed long, exhaustingly long, dark without a hint of light.

The silence inside the car was deafening.

Through the window, Dean could see Tristan, who didn't seem at all inclined to get into the Inn, still standing outside. A flicker of light, a thin line of smoke, then soon Tristan was instantly shrouded in Dean's eyesight. Smoke. Lost.

"Tristan."

Tristan slowly turned around, head tilted and eyes asking a question.

What the hell, Dean thought for what seemed like the tenth time. "There are better things in life than cigarette."

Sneering laugh. "Like what?"

"Beer."

* * *

The world was wonderfully funnier and decidedly weirder after several six-packs.

For one thing, Dean no longer held any resentment whatsoever toward the guy beside him, even though that guy happened to be named Tristan, formerly known as The Jackass. Secondly, he felt good--really, really good. So good in fact that the ground seemed to be doing the strange dance, waving up and down, and he felt he was on a bark floating in the ocean on a stormy night, but in a good and not about-to-throw-up kind of way.

There was no pub that opened that late at night anywhere in Star's Hollow. Actually, there was no pub that would admit underaged kids in the middle of the night in this town, period. So they had come to his garage yard and immediately begun devouring bottles of beer that Dean had hidden under one of the totaled car seats.

The sky was clear and dark and deep. Everyone was asleep. There were no residents near enough to complain about noises, and Dean was drunk enough not to care about consequences of any kind. So he said, "Go ahead."

Tristan cocked his head. "You sure?"

Dean waved his hand, not about to bother with more words when another bottle of beer was waiting for him.

Tristan arched his eyebrow. "Well then." He tightened his grip on the old aluminum bat Dean had given him and began beating already broken pieces of metals that once made up a beat-up car. The loud clang's and boom's seemed to magnify in the quite atmosphere of the night, but, really, Dean did not care.

"Feel any better?" Dean asked finally, after Tristan finished his ten-minutes of the hitting session with a loud clang and as the bat flew over and hit the metal fence.

"Maybe." Tristan swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, collapsing on the ground. He gulped down a whole bottle without an intake of breath. "So, this is what you barnboys do for fun, huh? Beat the crap out of...crap. Figures."

Dean half smiled. "What do you caviar-fed, overeducated geeks do for fun?"

"I run."

It was Dean's turn to arch his eyebrow. "You don't seem like the running type."

"Yeah, well, surprise. You don't know everything about me."

"And I really would like to keep it that way."

Both of them stopped and glanced at each other.

"Well, too bad, too late," Tristan said.

They sank back on the porch of the shack Dean used as storage and grabbed yet another bottles. The bottles clanged against one another, the only pleasant sound that broke the silence that surrounded them. The air was slightly on the chilly side, but that was quickly fixed with the hot alcohol in their system.

"What's this place anyway?" Tristan asked the question he seemed to have formed the moment he had laid his eyes on this place. "Where old, pathetic cars come in to die?"

"I built cars here."

"You build cars?"

"Built."

"So those pieces that I just crushed into powder minutes ago were--"

"Were to become a fashionably classic red convertible, yes."

Tristan seemed to be trying hard to hide genuine intrigue, and doing a bad job at it. "Why past tense?"

Dean wondered if he was really losing it, actually volunteering any kind of information to Tristan. "Built one for Rory. I saw Jess driving it."

And he had put a part of himself in that car, for Rory, only for her. He wasn't going to do that again. Ever.

Tristan only nodded. If it was possible, he almost seemed to hear what was unsaid.

Was he really doing a heart to heart with Tristan in the middle of the night, drinking beer? Well, he had long since decided to chalk up everything he had done and would do as under-the-influence behaviors if they ever came back to haunt him, so. Dean shock his head. "This is weird."

"What is? Here we are, two guys who could've killed each other should the occasion arise, talking and sharing like actual pals?"

"Pretty much."

"Don't jump to conclusions, barnboy. I'll get perverse joy out of stealing Rory right back from whatzhisname."

"Jess," Dean spoke the word with disgust, "And you're always welcome to try."

In between the fifth and sixth bottle of beer, they had considered going after Jess with baseball bats or sacking his house, but the plan, they had decided, was going to involve police and may cause too many unwanted casualties. Dean hated himself for being unable to get out being a 'good boy' even when he was drunk for all the sense of the word.

Rory wanted a bad boy, that Dean had figured out by now. He was never envious of rebellious streaks Jess seemed to possess that had Rory charmed, though. He had chalked off guys like Jess as punk and gone his way before and it was exactly what he did with Jess. Even now, when Rory was 'amorous' with Jess, Dean was far from being envious. Frustrated, maybe, mad like hell, maybe, but never envious. He had a family. He was a brother. He was a son. Those things that Rory never seemed to think big of (after all, just how many times had she been to his house while he'd been practically living in hers the last year?) were, unfortunately, what defined him. If she wanted a bad boy, fine, she got herself one already. She didn't need him. He didn't need him. He was just fine!

And which stage of denial was he on?

"...you ever think about the future?" Tristan's voice was slugged, and Dean missed the good portion of what he'd said.

"What?" Dean blinked.

"Future, dumbass. What do you wanna be, how you're planning to ruin your life, college, ambition, that sort of crap."

Dean had already passed the stage of wondering if he was really going to discuss his future plan with Tristan. He was drunk, after all. "Ambition, no. Maybe an engineer, but I'm not big on math. Without the luxury of your money or Jess's stinkin' genius brain, more likely to end up a garage worker, but that's fine. I have everything I want now, my family, friends, Ro--" Correction, he had had everything he wanted. Not any more. "Well, I will always have my family, I suppose."

"God, you're boring. What are you, a saint?" Tristan shook his head in mock-disgust. "Your family. What are they like?"

Dean had also passed the stage of wondering since when Tristan was actually interested in his life. "Dad sells car stereo. Mom works to transcribe medical records. There's one younger sister who does not want to see me kiss another girl but still likes me to introduce her a cute friend of mine."

"Must be nice."

Dean didn't think Tristan was being sarcastic. If ever, Tristan sounded slightly envious. He must be really drunk. "Yours?" Dean asked.

"I'm a bastard."

"Tell me something I don't know." Then Dean frowned. "Literally?"

"I wish." Tristan laughed. It sounded harsh, edged and wounded. "Father treats me like one. Couldn't think of any use for me so put me to the West Point and hope I'd stay quiet and forever remain a lieu for my whole life. At least wouldn't drill a hole to my trust fund too much that way. And he tells me 'You'll make one fine soldier, Tristan'. Hah."

"I really can't see you as a soldier of any kind. A spoiled brat who's never worked to earn a single dime in his life, but a soldier?"

"See," Tristan waved in the empty air, bitter, "you're like my mortal enemy, and yet you know that about me. My father--he doesn't even get that. He knows...nothing about me, really."

Dean didn't know what else to say. "That sucks."

"Very much." There was a small, lopsided grin on Tristan's face. "Always wanted to be anything but my father. And now I turned to something like this. Pathetic." He threw a bottle he had been holding at the pile of empty beer bottles in front of him. "Okay, why the hell am I pouring my heart out to you?"

There were a lot of different types of drunk. Dean wondered Tristan was the pouring-the-heart-out type drunk. "Beats me."

"I was an asshole," Tristan said abruptly, surprising Dean even more. He looked at Dean once, then looked straight in front of him. "To you, before. I lived to piss you off. Maybe, well, I was jealous."

Dean did a double take. Was it an apology he was hearing? Tristan really was drunk. "So the military school really does perform wonders."

"It's the beer talking."

"No wonder." Dean looked away. He had to give Tristan credit. This apology business was harder than he had thought, even with the alcohol. "I guess I was, too."

Tristan smirked. "What do you mean, 'was'?"

Dean threw a can at Tristan's way, which he dodged quickly. They both hid grins.

The silence settled down again, but it was not at all uncomfortable. Not any more.

"What are you gonna do now?" Dean asked after a while. He told himself he wasn't worried about Tristan because he couldn't possibly be, but the fact was he was. Worried.

"Go home, see Dad, wait to see if he would really disown me. After that, dunno. Always did want to see Hawaii."

"Baywatch, huh?"

"You betcha."

Tristan looked up to the sky once and lay back on the ground carelessly, using his arms as the pillow. Dean leaned back, watching the night sky. He had once stayed like this, here, before, with Rory.

This is totally, unwarrantedly unfair, Dean thought grumpily. Just what did he have to do to just forget the hell about her? Even totally intoxicated and mentally delusional, Rory didn't leave his brain well alone. Dean sighed out loud, thinking Tristan was asleep, so he almost jumped when Tristan spoke.

"Rory changed me. She almost saved my life. Almost. She would have saved me if I were less of a jackass, you know."

Dean had known that. Maybe, just maybe, that had been the reason Dean had guarded Rory from Tristan with dark ferocity. He had known that if Tristan tried truly hard enough, if Tristan had known what Rory really liked, Rory might have gone to him instead of Dean, at least a part of Rory that wanted rebellious, exciting someone who would take her away from life. Dean had wondered, time and again, whether Rory would be happy with just him. Whether he was enough for her. Good enough for her, smart enough for her, funny enough for her, interesting enough for her. His fear, in retrospect, had been justified.

"I came here tonight, thinking that if I try hard enough, I might be able to get her to save me this time."

"Then go see her," Dean said, surprising himself yet again. "I'm not stopping you."

"And have you kick my ass after? Gee, no thanks." Tristan grinned. "And now I know that's a wrong way to go about it. I know that now. I'm the one who should do my own saving. Funny, you of all people should help me realize that."

Dean knew people suddenly didn't become confidants, didn't become close friends overnight. At the same time he knew, even while wondering why Tristan had chosen to tell him all this, Tristan was being honest.

Dean wasn't kidding himself that he suddenly had an epiphany on life. But he saw, in a brief quicksilver of moment, everyone struggling with their own demons to fight, their own hell to bear, all trying to find their ways into life. What they really wanted, perhaps, was someone to share this all with. He and Tristan, in their own ways, failed to find that someone.

Dean didn't tell Tristan any of this. Instead, he said, all goofy, drunken grin, "If you go to her, I probably will kick your ass."

"We still don't like each other," Tristan said in mock solemnity.

"Of course."

"It's agreed, then."

"Yeah."

They stayed like that for a long while, Tristan lying down, Dean nursing an empty bottle with half a smile and full of regret. Dean thought of things said and unsaid, to Rory. He thought of how little he had meant to her. Besides having a good time and falling in love, this stuff he had talked to Tristan was what he should have shared with Rory. This stuff, this was what Rory should've known. He had told her none of this. Dean had told no one. And Rory, for all her smarts, didn't know him.

He wasn't sure which was more painful, the actual break-up, or finding out how little he had meant to her or how little she seemed to actually know him.

It was almost dawn; Dean could see a faint trace of amber beginning to dye the horizon, the dark indigo of the sky slowly turning lighter.

The morning, as slowly as it came, was a signal to a quick end of the night. The end of their confession night.

"Build the cars again, Dean," Tristan suddenly said. "It's a crime to waste a skill like that."

Dean turned to him, surprised.

Tristan and his self-conscious half-grin again. "Thought it was my turn to hand down two cents on life-saving decisions. You scratch my back, I scratch yours."

"Well," Dean said, after a moment, "that's an analogy I could've lived without."

They actually laughed. Together. It felt strange, but it also felt nice.

Tristan sat up, and they watched the sunrise through the mist and grey cloud.

When the morning came, when it really came, they went their separate ways without any goodbye's.

Tristan didn't look back.

* * *

Dean woke up that day when the sun actually began to set, another amber rays sipping through the curtains, with hell of a hangover and something heavy bouncing up and down on his bed. A loud voice thundered in his head, and he thought an anvil or a piano dropping on him would be a lighter punishment.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up!" shouted what Dean thought to be his own little devil.

He groaned, fending off a hand that was yanking away his blanket along with the warmth that surrounded him. "Get off, Clara... Go away..."

He had no effect whatsoever on his sister. "Dad says you gotta get down and have a proper family dinner. If not, he told me to tell you, uh, 'No more middle-of-night alcohol privileges'. And, ew," she held her nose, "you're smelly, Dean."

"Really?" He slowly got up and turned to her. "Oh well, then. You brought this upon yourself." He tackled his sister and started tickling. Clara giggled and laughed, trying to dodge and tickling him back with her smaller hands.

After laughter died out, she hugged him. Just like that.

"Dean," she whispered, "are you okay now?"

He thought of Rory and her smile. He thought of his sister, who knew not much of life yet but knew him enough to see he was hurting inside. He thought of his parents, who were worried over him but said nothing. He thought of Tristan. Of how Tristan looked like when he walked away. He thought of taking chances and letting people in. He thought he might be able to try. Take another chance.

And by God, he would. He would forget, and go forward.

"Yes," he said. "I'm okay now."

* * *

Seven hours later, it became pretty obvious that he had lied to his sister.

The phone call came at two in the morning, when Dean was staring at the ceiling, ready to spend the whole night without a blink of sleep.

"Dean, that you?" a voice came through the static, hazy and distant.

He realized who the frantic voice belonged to and instantly sat up. "Lorelai? What's wrong?"

"Have you seen Rory? Is she...is she with you by any chance?"

He felt something clawing at his chest. "Why would she be with me?"

A frustrated sigh filled the line. "I don't know! I thought there was a faint chance she might be with you, with anyone! I'm barely restraining from calling her kindergarten friends. Actually, I already called the half of them. God, Dean...she's gone."

He was no longer sitting down. "What do you mean she's gone?!"

"We had a fight--argument. She ran out, and that was around five in the afternoon yesterday. And she's still no show, and it's...oh, god. It's two am, and she hasn't called and--"

"Lorelai, calm down. Did you check--"

"I called everyone. My parents, Lane--"

"Uh, Paris?"

"Hasn't seen Rory since the fifth period yesterday."

Lorelai had called Paris? Now Dean believed she'd called every single possibility. "What about Luke?"

There was a long pause. When she answered, there was odd quietness in her voice, "Luke says Jess isn't home either."

Dean felt like he was punched in the gut. Breathe in, breathe out. He steadied himself. He'd known this was coming. He had. He answered wearily, "Then the answer is fairly obvious, isn't it? Lorelai, go to sleep. She's...fine."

"No." Dean could almost hear Lorelai jumping up and down on the other side of the line. Here was Lorelai, grasping at straws, even calling her daughter's ex boyfriend, hoping it wasn't true. Dean felt her desperation so vividly that it hurt him too. "This is not like her, Dean. She wouldn't do this to me. Not after--" Whatever she was about to say, she swallowed it. She only added, dead serious, "She wouldn't do this to me. She never did this kind of thing before."

"Well, Lorelai, technically speaking--" Dean tried not to point out about the prom night, when Dean and Rory had fallen asleep and caused all the manners of trouble.

"That's different," Lorelai cut off him, somehow reading his mind, "I knew who she was out with, and, contrary to my...reaction, I didn't believe for a second you were stupid and irresponsible enough to try something idiotic with my daughter."

"And you think Jess might be?"

There was no answer, only a muted sigh.

Rory was out there with Jess, spending all night together.

The unfortunate thing, Dean thought, was that there was no more car to hammer down.

Three in the morning, his Rory box had been cleared up and sealed. He took his tool box and oiled every single item carefully. When everything was ready, he stared at the tool box for a long moment, a minute stretching into eternity. He exhaled, reaching out his hand to grab it. He thought of Tristan. Of how Tristan looked like when he walked away. He thought of taking chances and letting people in. Thought of taking another chance.

He then thought of Rory, and Jess.

His hand stopped in the midair.

He couldn't.

That night, Dean began running. He ran until his chest was ready to explode, until his legs gave out and collapsed on the ground. At that moment, he thought he might forget the cold, shivering emotion.

He thought about how many times Tristan had run like this, wondering what had gone wrong, was going wrong, would go wrong. Thought of missed opportunities, thought of things that he should've said, and haven't. He thought of lost souls. He wondered if he would be able to build cars again.

He wondered how many more nights in the future he would be out here, running.

* * *

TBC...


	4. The Variations in the Narrative Inevitab...

Wow, another set of lovely feedback. Thank you. I'm attempting something I've never tried before, developing an actual relationship not in the form of the standard soapy romance, and the fact that people are out there, enjoying this, is the best encouragement that there is. I hope I don't disappoint Dean fans out there. ;)

4: The Variations in the Narrative Inevitability  


* * *

If a relationship is to evolve, it must go through a series of endings.  
-Lisa Moriyama  


* * *

Some things just stayed the same; some good, some bad, and some that meant nothing either way, like the tediousness of his job at the grocery. He was used to this out of pure necessity, and that made the work both easier and mildly threatening. Little mundane things of life that were hauled at people, at first incredibly unbearable, gradually settled into an alarmingly comfortable pattern, an unbreakable routine of character and life. Wake up next day, and you'd be all the things you never wanted to be. Dean had wondered from time to time if he'd wake up one day and find that his life had gone on without a beginning or an end, if little trivial things that he never truly cared for in his heart would become permanent, inevitable parts of his life.

But now, when everyone talked of summer and their plans, he was grateful for this tedious job. Mundane tasks actually kept him going. When he was cashing lettuce and eggplants, toothpastes and dish soaps, he could tell himself that the feverish time of the spring past had swept by, and he had survived.

If anything, he had gotten into a better shape after a week of midnight running. That was something, at least.

He checked the clock briefly; he was off in half an hour. When he was occupying himself with counting the rolls of pennies, a slender hand pushed over a piece of paper with numbers across the desk. He looked up.

"It's not my number if that's what you were guessing." Amanda stood across from him with a reserved smile, looking immaculate from head to toe as usual.

"What is it?" he asked, reluctantly fingering the paper.

Amanda looked vaguely embarrassed, which was strange, because she was always a picture of fine confidence. "Call this number. There is this summer job, an internship opportunity at some big name engine-designing place or something to do with auto design...or something. It's a forty-minute drive, but I think it'd be worth it. Of course, that is, if you're not too attached to this"--she looked around the store, trying not to make a face at it--"job."

Dean was dumbfounded. "How did you know I was--"

"--interested in cars? In case you didn't notice, I pay attention."

He looked down at the paper, looked up at her, and looked down again. What was he supposed to say to her? "Aman--"

"I like you," she said abruptly.

Dean's mind immediately went blank. What was he supposed to say to her now? Thanks?

Was this his fault? Had he unwittingly dropped hints that Amanda took as "You Shall Proceed" signals? Even Dean, the perpetual slow learner in the world of female psyche, had noticed that Amanda had persistently shown interest in him even after the particularly painful event after the last dance. The sad thing was, he wasn't.

Amanda smiled, reading his expression. She actually looked more relaxed now. "You don't have to look like that. I'm not asking you to marry me or anything. I'm not blind. I know you and your ex, and... I know." Her voice was soft now. "I'm just saying I can wait."

I don't want to do this, Dean thought in despair. He knew what it was like, to rake your emotions outside to show to one person and ask him/her to reciprocate such feelings, knowing they were most likely not to be returned. He knew how this felt on the rejected end; he didn't want to be the one doing the rejecting. "It's not fair to you."

Amanda wasn't to be deterred. "Of course not. Since I want this more than you do, it can't possibly be fair. So what? I'd like to be your friend."

She was proud, unflinching, but even through her confident smile Dean felt her desperation that seemed indeed too familiar. "Why? You don't even know me."

"When I saw you the first time, you were trying to stop a fight. You just put yourself there, and the other guy took a swing at you, but you just...kept your cool and dealt with it. I thought, wow, I have to get to know this guy."

They were the echoes of his own words to Rory. The fight was when he'd tried to stop Jess, the one where Jess had taken a swing at him. Amanda had seen him then.

This irony wasn't lost on Dean.

Amanda continued softly, "This doesn't happen to me often, you know, a serious case of crush. But I don't want it to stop at the crush level. So first, friend. Maybe more, but for now, I'll settle for a friend spot." She pushed the paper over the desk. "Give them a call when you're ready. And call me, if you'd like."

Before he could say anything, she turned toward to the exit.

"Amanda! I--" What to say now? What? There was nothing he could say that wouldn't hurt her less. He said lamely, "Thanks."

She turned to him, breaking into laughter. "Boy, so not what I wanted to hear." She shook her head. "Oh well, beggars can't be choosers. Guess I'll have to settle for your 'thanks'."

In a second, she was out of the door, gone, like a mirage. He was left with a shadow of her wistful smile, his guilt, and a glare from Taylor.

Back home, with exhausted mind and body. But there were more reminders of Rory, Amanda, and things he weren't ready for, than the piece of paper he had put into his pocket after hesitation.

"I want you to like Amanda," Clara declared at dinner.

Dean put down his fork, because there was no stopping her when his sister got this annoying, and because he lost all appetite. "You actually like Amanda?" What, was Amanda bribing his sister? Clara couldn't be taking after Amanda already? At least if Clara tried to take after Rory, he wouldn't have to worry about his sister spending more times at the Mall than the school.

Clara stuck out her tongue. "I like her. She's nicer than Rory. Why can't you love Amanda?"

He was silent, because she struck the core. Why couldn't he? Amanda, who was head over heels with him. Amanda, who paid all of her attention to him, someone who seemed to know more about what he needed in a couple of weeks than Rory ever had, someone who was definitely easy on the eye. Why not? Clearly, if men could walk on the Moon, Dean could like someone other than Rory. A man was supposed to be able to conquer anything if he put his mind to it.

Why not, dammit?

Dean attacked the mashed potatoes without answering his sister, and Mom answered for him, her tone slightly admonishing, "It doesn't work that way, Clara. There shouldn't be a reason why you love somebody. You just do, even with so many flaws, even though you might get hurt. You just embrace everything about this person, because you just do."

"Of course, of course," Dad agreed, because he agreed to almost everything what Mom said at the dinner table. That was the smart man's tactic, he had once told Dean. "That's how we were anyway."

It was never a good idea to talk about love with probably the only happily married couple he knew. More so if they happened to be your parents. Anyway, his version of romance like his parents' was already out of the picture, his illusion broken. He felt mean. "That's way too romanticized, isn't it?" Dean commented curtly, "Some people might chalk off love as hormones at work, not some fate at work. You think too much of that love thing."

"Now, now, don't be grumpy, Dean," Mom was, irritatingly enough, all smile, "We all know you just broke up with a girl."

He waved his fork instead of answering.

Mom asked, quieter, "So why did you love Rory?"

That stopped him dead. Why?

Because of the way her eyebrows furrow when she concentrates, because her hand fits perfectly into his, because of the way her face breaks into a radiant, live, smile, because of her nonstop babbles that bring tingles into his chest, because of the way she looks at him with her head tilted that brings flutters to his heart, because of the way her soft hair feels between his fingers, because of her touch that burns into his skin even through the thick fabric of his jacket, because her voice has enigmatic magic that turns a boring narrative into passionately woven tales, because he's never wanted big things in life but wants everything for her, because he can just tell she's going to be something great in life with or without him and he desperately wants along for the ride, because she makes him feel big and so small at the same time, because he is not the jealous type but is to a ferocious degree when it comes to her, because with one glance for him, she can bring out all these rush of emotions, and because with one glance meant for someone else, she can take them all away from him.

Because she can make him give up all these for her. For her happiness.

Because it never was about 'did'. Because it was always about 'do'.

So why did he love her?

Because not one of the reasons was sufficient.

"I don't remember," he lied.

Mom looked at him, her eyes searching. "You must've really loved her, then."

The understanding in her gentle voice hurt him more than it should have. Everyone on the table shared a meaningful silence. Everyone, except Clara who was at the moment only concerned with corns on her plate.

Dad cleared the throat and suggested in an opportune time that Dean should help him with unpacking new car stereos tomorrow. Dean wondered whether to tell them about the job offer and decided against it. He wasn't even decided whether to take it anyway. No point in appearing as if their careless, ambitionless son was suddenly interested in future plans.

When he passed Mom's side to get to the sink, dirty plates in his hand, she kissed his cheek.

"Let it pass," she told him gently, "It will pass."

That night, when he ran again and his lungs were filled with cold air that cut like blade, he noticed he was always coming back to the bus bench, Rory's bench. He couldn't laugh, but only hope his mother was right. When hoping became too much, he took out the piece of paper from his pocket and stared at the numbers he couldn't read because of the dark.

It suggested a future with a narrative inevitability of a fairy tale told too many times. Only this future, he would be the villain, with Amanda as the hurt protagonist. Rory would be there as a foil. She would always be there, even in other future scenarios.

Dean desperately wanted to write a new story. Taking chances, letting people in. Letting it go.

The problem was, even after two weeks, he didn't know how.

* * *

/I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen./

Dean was currently watching a young version of John Cusack having a fit on the TV screen. John Cusack, screaming at the phone, and with not just a little amount of agony.

"Huh." After a moment of consideration, Dean took over the remote and stopped the video. He then turned to the protesting companions, "So, is there like a reason you chose to watch this movie with me? A romantic comedy about the most intelligent girl in town and a guy with no ambition falling in love with her? What's the moral here?"

Lorelai, her hand full of popcorns, scoffed, "You're completely paranoid. It's sacrilegious that you haven't seen 'Say Anything' before you hit fifteen."

Lane, comfortably seated between Dean and Lorelai, snatched some of those popcorns herself, "Agreed. Sacrilegious and against all the laws of nature and civilization."

Dean huh-ed again, resumed the video, and retraced the steps just how on earth he had ended up here, at Lorelai's -- at Rory's -- on a beautiful Friday night. Well, it had started with a phone call from Lorelai again, although it hadn't begun with the usual, desperate "Have you seen Rory?" question. The following conversation had taken place instead:

"Rory's not home, Dean, so you might as well come over and entertain me."

"...Why?"

"'Cause I'm bored?"

"Right. Uh, no thanks, I'll pass."

"C'mon, why not? She made it clear she wasn't gonna be home like, until tomorrow morning. Again. And I'm bored."

"What happened to the Friday night dinner at your parents'?"

"Rory dismissed it."

"Rory dismissed it?" Dean hadn't known that was actually possible.

"Rory dismissed it on account of her fabulous nighting tonight which I haven't been properly informed of."

So this was another of Lorelai's "Have you seen Rory?" call, just in a different form. Dean hadn't been sure whether the hurt he felt was for Lorelai, or for himself. "Call Luke, then."

An exaggerated gasp. "Don't tell me that you haven't heard the rumor yet?"

"What rumor?"

"That Luke had divorced any kind of friendship with Lorelai Gilmore after a particularly upsetting fight which by now everyone has heard in this town."

Over Jess, of course. Apparently they were still not on speaking terms yet. Oh well. "What about Lane?"

"Cheerleading practice. Or was it the band?"

"Sookie?"

"She's getting some hot monkey sex with Jackson right about now."

"You're really in tuned with this too much information thing, aren't you?"

"And you realized that now? How slow are you?"

"Why do you want me to come over? Did it ever occur to you that I might have something tonight?"

"Well, do you?"

"...No, but that's not the point."

"Then what is?"

One thing about Lorelai, she was bossy. Another thing, her bossiness always seemed to work. There had been a thousand reasons for not coming, and a blind deaf-mute could see that this could never end well, but he'd come anyway. Lorelai, too, was his friend, and it didn't feel right to leave a friend who seemed so...lonely. He understood what it was like.

When he had gingerly come over an hour later, he expected traps. And sure enough, he almost tripped over half a dozen of romantic comedy videos strewn all over the living room.

"Hey Dean," Lorelai, at the moment stretched all over the couch, had waved casually at him.

"Lorelai."

"Yes, Dean."

"Can there be any kind of reasoning with you on this?"

"No." A sweet, sweet smile. "Popcorn?"

The living room was messy beyond reason. Dean gave up making a room for himself and sat on the floor beside the couch. Looking at the empty bowls of popcorn and chocolate and a lot of stuff that he couldn't dare to guess, he asked, "Lorelai, are you going through a mid-life crisis?"

"Wow, resentment forming. Mid-life? Have I not worked hard enough to propagate that I haven't even reached my early-life?"

"Then, what, a preemptive strike? Seriously, I think calling Lane and forming a support group on why-am-I-left-out-from-Rory's-life-again might be a better idea than calling her ex-boyfriend to come over and watch the 80's finest romantic comedies."

Which was exactly what she proceeded to do the next moment. "Lane should be finished with practice by now," Lorelai explained. "Of course, you can't leave now. Ya gotta be the secretary to my president."

So they were all here now, three of them gathered in a jungle of a living room and throwing popcorns everywhere. Two years in this town, and Dean was yet to discover anything more compounding than Lorelai's taste in movies.

"Dean?" Lorelai called out while Dougray Scott was proposing to Drew Barrymore, which surprised Dean because she and Lane had been waiting for this moment for the entire duration of 'Ever After', even discussing the merits of supposedly French prince speaking English with vague British accent that somehow sounded like French accent.

"Yeah?"

"How's school?"

Was this a trick question? With Lorelai, he was never sure. "Made a bomb in chem, shot a few fellow students in gym, blew up the principal's office at recess, the usual."

"Covering only the basics, tsk, tsk. Young kids these days, never venture."

Gilmore girls had a bad habit of talking about extremely irrelevant materials when they actually wished to discuss something else entirely. Dean glared, "Lorelai."

"What, what?"

"What do you want to tell me?"

"What could you possibly mean?" Lorelai gave him a completely innocent look.

Geez, a time like this called for a drastic measure. "Lorelai, I'm keeping this remote control hostage until you say fully what's on your mind."

"You," Lorelai sat up in feigned horror and threw popcorns at him, "are getting way better at this than I'm comfortable with."

"I've known you way too long." Dean allowed a small grin. "So?"

"Nothing!" Lorelai avoided his glare. "Really. It's just this little thing that keeps bugging me, this little issue of you having the will of steel to resist the charm of that new Ashley girl, which of course is none of my business and you can totally tell me to butt out, but I'm only humbly wondering if that's the reason you're wallowing in angst today...like many other days."

It was a hint that things were going verrry screwy if your ex-girlfriend's mom began to worry about your love life, or lack there of. It was a good time to start panicking. "Where did you hear--" Dean stopped and glared at Lane.

The Asian girl in question quickly withdrew her interested look and turned away, helping herself with more popcorn. "I'm not here, people."

Lorelai had enough grace to look sheepish. "I'm reestablishing the disclaimer: you can totally tell me to butt out, and I've no intention to play shrink, but I'm--"

"--just worried, I know." Of course she was. Dean tried to hide irritation. She was just concerned about his well-being. Just concerned, that was all. No reason for annoyance.

Lorelai gave him a slight relieved grin and fully turned to him, the movie and the glass shoe bit completely ignored. "So? Are we getting any juicy details? 'Fess up. I need my vicarious fix."

"Isn't that what these movies are for? Besides," Dean said, half-turning, feeling rather malicious, "You're not worried about me. You're more worried about easing Rory's guilty conscience."

The movie was still on, its background music filling the living room with loud, pseudo-Celtic music, but somehow, it sounded hollow, as if no one in the room was watching. It was probably because they weren't, because both Lorelai and Lane stared at him instead of the screen, the first with hurt and the latter with surprise.

Crap. Dean briefly closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. That was really low of me."

Lorelai, suddenly with a rueful smile, shook her head. "No, you're right. I was out of line. And maybe I did think about Rory and how she feels. But I thought of you just the same."

"I know you did. I'm sorry. And I am fine. I mean, I've gone through all the stages, denial, anger, don't-want-to-hear-her-name's. All that. And I haven't slit my wrist yet, so--I'm fine."

Lane and Lorelai both pulled their distinct I-don't-believe-you faces and Dean added, sighingly, knowing exactly what would make them believe him, "And it's not Ashley. Her name is Amanda, and it's not like that. We're just," he tried to find a word, and failed, "friends." Were they even? He wasn't sure, because if they were, he would have called her already, got the job without the guilt problem, and possibly opened the door for something more.

So what if he was lying. It was a small lie. And it might not be a lie, given some time.

Lorelai, making him wonder just how many kinds of smile that she could possibly possess, gave him a broad, mischievous smile. "That, my friend, is how the history is made." Her eyes met his, and she patted his shoulder. "I'm happy for you, Dean," she lost the mischief in her voice this time, but none of the warmth.

Dean looked down, because he couldn't meet her eyes, because him getting all weepy wouldn't be a particularly attractive picture. He swallowed hard, thinking it was a good time to change the topic. "Um, more popcorn? And if anyone noticed, the movie's ended."

Lorelai right away handed him an empty plastic bowl for popcorn, probably taking a pity on him. "Hmm, in the honor of Dean's decreasing chance of becoming a monastic monk permanently, I call on Dean to choose the next film."

"Hear, hear!" Lane chimed in.

He retreated to the kitchen, still wondering like hell what in the god's name he was doing here, and came back from the kitchen trying to figure out the movie that everyone would hate.

"Here's something that'd be slightly less offensive to my mental health," he said, triumphantly holding 'The Mummy Returns' and the popcorn container, "This should be enough punishment for you, except for that buff guy, who would be--"

No one answered him, no single expected "Horror! Horror!" from Lorelai. He looked up and saw Lane and Lorelai were singularly staring at the doorway.

Which was where Dean found an astonished Rory and a very unhappy Jess standing uncomfortably.

Silence.

Dean suddenly had an incredible and inexplicable feeling that he should never have come.

They collectively looked at anywhere but each other, except for Lorelai, who was looking directly at her daughter.

"Wow, back so early?" Lorelai spoke, slowly standing up, arms crossed. Dean thought he could see this hard steely something building in her. "No overnight I-don't-even-call-my-worried-mom adventure? No I-won't-be-coming-home-tonight-and-don't-give-a-damn-whether-you-like-it-or-not -'cause-I-know-everything declaration to follow up? Surprise, surprise."

Rory, seemingly jolted out from seeing what must've been a scene from her nightmare, collected herself and answered with amazingly calm voice, "We just came to apologize. Jess thought we should."

Lane and Dean exchanged glances and backpedaled as far away as possible from the ground zero, walking slowly to go unnoticed. Jess stood a little behind Rory. Even with his standard devil-may-care expression, it was clear as day that Jess didn't want to be anywhere near here at the moment.

"Really?" Lorelai turned to Jess, her voice flat, "You got a lot of balls coming in here, buddy, with the last stunt you pulled."

"Mom!" Rory jumped in, her face pale even when her eyes were full of anger, "He didn't pull anything, as I've explained a thousand times. It was my idea. Jess comes in trying nothing but to civil and you do this to him. You always do this to him. And you invited Lane over while I was gone? Not just Lane! You called--" she stopped, trailing off, her eyes downcast. Her lips quivered, and all the people in the room knew whose name she'd been about to utter. Dean looked away.

But Lorelai was merciless, "Oh, I'm sorry, how ignorant of me not knowing I wasn't allowed to do things on my own consent under this roof which I worked and paid for. Of course I need a permission for such a harmless little thing like calling Lane and Dean over when I'm bored out of my skull, and clearly, you don't need a permission for a single thing in life!"

Wow. Dean was apparently witnessing a making of history. Lorelai and Rory Gilmore, in a full-grown fight? Not something he was prepared to fully witness, more so if he was being discussed here. He handed the video to Lane and ignoring the 'Traitor!' look Lane was giving him, took a step toward the door. "Uh, I should go, Lorelai," he spoke quietly, hoping it would be under the hearing threshold.

No luck. Lorelai turned to him, "You're staying."

"Mom!"

"Don't you dare move a step out from my house, Dean. I order you to stay, or you'll never be coming here again."

'Is that a promise?' Dean almost said, but bit it back. The appropriate response was to say, "Um, Okay," and back out slowly to their bystander side. Lane looked at him sympathetically.

"What is this, Mom? I mean, a passive aggressive strike to show your discontent with my decision to actually have fun in life? All right," Rory went, her arms waving the air, "I'm gonna call Max and hang out with him!"

"First of all, ewww. Second, like you're gonna have a horrid affair with a teacher in the manner of the Graduate? Third, fine, do whatever, since when do you ask for my opinion? But you don't get a say in who I invite over or who I don't, and Dean's staying."

"What is it with you? If Dean's so great, why don't you marry him!"

"Maybe I will! He's half my age and still underage, but so what? It's been proven Gilmore girls could do obviously worse in so many ways!"

God, were they not aware of him standing right here? Since obviously he didn't get any say in who to marry, he ventured tentatively, "Uh, can I go before you both decide to marry me off to Miss Patty?"

Lorelai and Rory both turned to him, eyes blazing. "No!"

Some things never changed, Dean sighed.

Lorelai turned serious, grew quiet, "Rory, I'm not telling you who to like. And conversely, you can't tell me who to like either. I just don't know how I'm supposed to respect someone and trust my daughter with him when he gives me no reason to do so. Can you honestly tell me, Rory, I didn't try hard enough to give him a fair chance?"

Rory didn't answer; neither did Jess. Dean was actually surprised that Jess was taking in Lorelai's tantrum like this, didn't just scoff and walk out.

Which meant Jess really did care about Rory. Possibly felt the same toward her.

The sky wasn't broken, there was no earthquake. For Dean, it just hurt a lot. It was okay, though, because the pain had not disappeared anyway. It was still as acute as ever, the hole still empty. But his heart might have been hardened. Dulled. So, yes, it was okay.

It was.

Lorelai turned to Jess bitterly, "Was it really you idea to come over tonight and apologize for your behavior the last time? All right, then. Let's hear it. Do apologize, mister."

Before Jess could say anything damaging, Rory said, almost inaudible, "Mom, you supposed to try. Even though you don't like him, you're supposed to try to like him."

"Well, why the hell should I? And for once, I'm asking a very legitimate question."

"For me, Mom. Because I ask you to do this for me!"

The room suddenly grew silent.

The tableau was this. Rory, still a vision even with tears staining her face, shaking at the doorway; Lorelai, frozen, confusion and guilt and realization and hurt and maternal instinct all rolled into one expression; Jess, hovering over Rory almost protectively, going against all of his cool guy image; Lane, standing away as a spectator, a witness to something she couldn't quite handle, a witness to confirm that maybe she wasn't as close to her friend as she used to be; and Dean.

And Dean. He, the only moving member of this tableau, guessed it was his time to go.

He walked out, passing Rory through the small doorway, his shoulder almost touching her hair. Almost, but not. It broke his heart.

What was left of it, anyway.

* * *

He walked down Rory's porch, hands sliding into his pockets. The night air was cooling. Not enough for him, but cooling.

It was destined to end this way. Yep, the narrative inevitability of a fairy tale told once too many. A boy meets a girl. A boy is blissfully happy. The boy loses the girl. The END.

"Dean!"

Lorelai stood on the porch. The light from the window only partially lit her face, but he could read one big emotion on her expression: guilt. "I wasn't using you for my passive aggressive attempt at anti-Jess fest. Truly. I...didn't know she was going to be home. I'm really sorry this happened."

He stared at his feet.

Lorelai let out a frustrated yelp. "Say something, Dean. Yell at me, scream at me, and stop with the silent Josh Hartnett in Pearl Harbor thing, 'cause it's creeping me out, although probably not as much as the movie, and yes, I have seen the movie and for that, I must die."

There was no period or even coma to be found in her speech. Dean shook his head, half amused despite himself. "I'm not articulate, Lorelai."

"Surprisingly, that didn't escape my notice."

"Lorelai, I'm not like you or Rory. Words just don't stream out from my mouth like you, can't argue like you, can't express feelings like you two do. And when I try, I come up sounding like a total jerk. Sounds so angry and jealous and stupid." As proven by the past incidents. Dean sighed. "Lorelai, you didn't put up with me for the last couple of years only because of Rory, did you?"

"What? No--"

"Likewise I didn't come here today just because you're Rory's mom. Actually, I shouldn't have come preciously because you're Rory's mom, but I'm here. I'm glad you called me. You call me whenever, and I'll be here. But now, you gotta be on Rory's side. Rory is your kid, and I'm not. She needs you more, and I get that. I have to be, because despite everything, I had fun with you and Lane, and I want to see you two again. With, or without Rory."

Lorelai stayed silent, the bird sang the night away, and he looked down, shuffling his foot.

When she spoke again, she had walked down the stairs and stood before him. She was smiling, for him.

"When I first met you, Dean, before I knew you, I thought you were like Christopher, Rory's dad, all charm and no responsibility." She took his hand and squeezed once gently. "I've never been more glad to have been wrong."

Probably the best compliment he could ever get from Lorelai. Another weepy moment. Dean swallowed a lump and forced a smile. "Go. Rory's waiting."

Dean watched as Lorelai walked back into the house, and his smile, for all his effort, turned weary. Narrative inevitability again. He was to stand here, outside, left alone. And watch. The only thing that was allowed.

He was tired.

"You were great," a voice broke the silence, and Lane appeared.

The weary smile now took over his face. "You know, I should've kicked his ass right there."

Lane pushed up her glasses that dangled on her nose, shaking her head. "You wouldn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're nice."

So what if he was? That wasn't something Rory was looking for, and he had only his totally shattered heart to show for. "Fat a lot of good that did."

Lane took one look at him, smiled. "Well, niceness at least gets you free ice cream. Let's go."

Dean dropped his mouth, amazed. "Haven't we honestly had enough for today?"

"I don't know what guys do to feel better, but this is what we do. And since you made Lorelai feel much, much better, you deserve some ice cream."

Here he saw Lane, not Rory's friend, but his. Like Lorelai. He thought he had to endure this period of life, let it pass, let it flow until everything was better again. But maybe, there was another way.

He smiled, but it wasn't weary any more. "Hmm. So this is one of those things I should follow without questions?"

"You're catching up fast."

Dean made a grand gesture with his arm. "Lead the way."

And amazingly enough, after three scoops of ice cream and several laughs with Lane, it did feel better.

A variation in the narrative inevitability.

He didn't run that night.

* * *

TBC.  
(Hmmm, getting longer and longer and longer... But, it is leading somewhere! ;)) 


	5. Curveballs of Denouement

Again, thank you for the wonderful feedback. Mmmm, yum. This part was particularly difficult to write and seemed almost impossible to bear--that is, if it weren't for the sweet, sweet feedback.

5: Curveballs of Denouement

* * *

In my beginning is my end.

-T.S. Eliot

* * *

One day after school, he found himself wandering aimlessly in a bookstore. He didn't know why exactly, but there he was, contemplating on heroes and anti-heroes, conflicts and solutions, climax and denouement. He wasn't much of a reader, but he had dated Rory the Avid Reader, and while he was more inclined to stare at her lips and very, very pretty eyes when she ran run-on sentences like no other, he had picked up this and that about literature and poetry, conflicts and character developments. Supposedly, in a prototype of a tale, a hero would be faced with a conflict, search for an answer, and when he found it, the story would come back in a full circle. The question raised in the beginning would be answered in the end, and if there was no answer, that was already enough of an answer. A mind-boggling concept, really, one that he didn't care much about.

But then, at one point he passed Fiction & Literature section of the bookstore, seeing a huge copy of War And Peace and a relatively thinner one of The Sun Also Rises. He passed Poetry section, looking at T.S. Eliot and the Portable Dorothy Parker. He ended up walking out with four new books in his hands and not once realizing what he had done until he was blocks away from the bookstore.

Dean wondered briefly if there was some sort of a hidden meaning for his actions, for buying the books and not even getting the receipt. He refused to admit that these books were very closely related to his ex-girlfriend, or that books were supposedly where people (Rory) sought their answers. People (Rory) talked about books with others who understood (Jess) and talked about life. Dean told himself that he was finding out why's and how's without relying on books, that he had decided to live, not linger, in life, and that was what he was doing.

But first, he had to find out 'how' he was going to write this new script, which, if the last couple of weeks had been any kind of evidence, was proving to be quite difficult.

Maybe reading books couldn't hurt.

He passed the baseball field, thinking about softball games that he hadn't been to for a long time, and the grocery store, thinking about the internship that he had yet to call in to take. He passed Luke's diner, thinking about not-thinking, and he looked up when he sensed another person occupying the road ahead of him.

The man with the ever-present cap and the familiar traditional flannel stood in front of Dean, not exactly blocking Dean's way, but not really moving out to make a way for him.

Options? Dean could risk striking up a conversation and get into a fight, or he could ignore the guy and walk passed him and get into a fight. Okay, so not much of options there.

"So," Dean said to Luke, going for the first option since it had more chance of only including verbal abuse and not physical.

"So," Luke grunted, sort of acknowledging him, but not really.

Had there been any kind of incidents that Luke would like to beat him up for? If this was Luke resuming his position as the pseudo father to Rory and here to kick Dean's butt for the break-up, it was certainly too late. And Luke was all for Rory and Jess, Rory being a good influence and all, so that was off. Dean raked his brain, but nothing else came to his mind. What was this about, then?

Dean waited, waited, and waited, while Luke scrambled about, shuffling his feet.

Finally, when Dean actually got to the point of wondering whether Luke was here to thank him for not killing Jess yet, Luke spoke, the usual grumpiness applied underneath the growling voice, "What's that?"

"Um," Dean looked down at his hands, "books?"

"I can see that," Luke glared. "What are they? You know, the titles, authors, things that traditionally describe books?"

Dean shrugged. He wasn't so eager to share his taste in books with Luke just yet. "Just some stuff for school."

"School's almost over."

"I read."

"Since when?"

"Since I said what's it to you?"

"Hmph." Luke scrambled about with his feet a bit more, and when Dean thought wistfully of the possibility of the option three -- turn on the heels and get the hell out of dodge regardless of consequences -- Luke pushed a brown paper cup into Dean's hand. "Here."

Dean peered into it. "What's this?"

"What does it look like?"

Looked like coffee, smelled like coffee, tasted like coffee. "What I meant is--why are you giving this to me?"

"'Cause," Luke mumbled, looking away.

"'Cause what?"

"You like coffee, right?"

"Of course."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

"I think I should at least know why I'm getting free coffee--from you." And they both knew Luke wasn't that generous with his prestigious coffee. "It's not poisoned or anything, right?"

"Will you just take the damn coffee!"

Slowly, Dean tilted his head, suppressing a smile, "Are you trying to say 'Sorry', Luke? Is this an I'm-Sorry gift?"

"That's it," Luke made threatening steps toward him, "Gimme that back."

Dean jumped away to avoid Luke's hand. "No can't do," he stifled a laugh, "It's mine now."

Luke growled, and Dean could no longer suppress the smile threatening to take over his entire face. He now had the first-handed experience how much fun it was to ruffle Luke's feathers, an enjoyment that seemed reserved for Lorelai, and he was immensely proud of himself.

"Hey, Luke?"

Half turning, Luke barked, "What?"

"Are you speaking to Lorelai yet?"

Luke was the only person Dean knew who could actually express annoyance with his entirely body. "What's it to you?"

Dean, of course, tried not to enjoy Luke's annoyance too much. "Still not talking? Wow, this's lasting long."

"I said it once and I say it now--what's it to you?"

"Admit it, you miss her."

Luke grumbled something colorful under his breath, then said out loud, "And this is any of your business, how?"

"Just paying my coffee's worth, Luke," Dean grinned and paused, because he now wondered if he could possibly ask for more from Luke, and whether Luke would let him. "You know the softball game next Saturday."

"What about it?"

"I haven't practiced. My swing's kinda slow."

"It always has been."

Dean saw no point in reestablishing that he was the best hitter, Luke being the best pitcher, that the town had, so he let the comment slide. "Wanna pitch some balls for me?"

Luke shot him a look that would freeze the hell twice and over. "Now?

"Why not?"

"For you?"

"Yep."

"While my diner's run by Kirk?"

Yikes, Luke had let Kirk run his store to give Dean a cup of coffee? While finding that image inappropriately funny, Dean felt oddly touched. "Yes."

Luke pretended to think. It didn't last a second.

"What the hell. Let's go."

They pitched balls and swung bats until Luke begrudgingly admitted Dean's batting skill, until they couldn't see because of the dark, until Dean couldn't breathe any more, until Dean thought--I might not need those books after all.

Because this field with protesting Luke, like Tristan with his cigarettes and Lorelai with her phone calls and Lane with her ice creams and Amanda with her high heels, was where he could find all the answers and how's. Because everything was about process, and he would rather spend his time with other people he cared about, not drying up inside to forget.

And because coffee never tasted this good.

* * *

"Everything," Tristan said, a cigarette burning between his fingers, "is about the process."

Dean was not overly surprised to find Tristan occupying a spot in his garage that night. It was very like him to appear out of the thin air, lying down in front of the shack as if he owned everything and smoking the hell out of himself. He had been here for quite a while. As a proof, the only reminders of Dean's stack of beer were the squashed cans currently decorating his garage yard.

Dean thought for a second, and with his hands in his pockets, sauntered across to the shadowy figure that was Tristan.

Dean stopped in front of him, made an observation of the small mountain of cigarettes at Tristan's feet. "If I make an untimely joke that this is a non-smoking section, are you gonna give a damn?"

Tristan let out a long stream of smoke. "Nope."

Well, at least he could always trust Tristan to be Tristan. Dean allowed a small grin to slip into his face before sitting down at his side.

So. Tristan was here.

Which meant the talk with his father couldn't have gone well.

Which also meant Dean wasn't supposed to ask what happened just yet. Dean played with an empty beer can, glancing at Tristan briefly from time to time. It was quite frightening how well Dean had come to know Tristan, but he knew if he waited enough, Tristan would eventually tell him, in one way or the other, everything.

Three more cigarettes and the definitely increased chance of lung cancer later, they were still sitting in the jet-black darkness with none of the benefit of the moonlight.

The surreptitious silence was in the air, the reminiscence of their night here before.

And Tristan had not said another word.

It was getting way too dark, and slightly chilling. Dean slowly got up, reaching out to turn on a small bulb of light hung in front of his shack. He almost tripped over another carelessly strewn can when a hand reached and pulled him down.

"Don't," Tristan said, voice low. When Dean looked at him with puzzlement, Tristan added, "Attracts bugs. I hate bugs."

And that was that. One irritating side of actually getting to know somebody was that Dean was no longer allowed not to give a rat's ass about little things like Tristan's comfort level.

Tristan lit another cigarette with his lighter. The light of it flickered and pierced the darkness in a quicksilver of moment. But that brief second was enough--Dean closely saw bruises and cuts on Tristan's face, no longer hidden in the dark.

Damn. Dean stared until he couldn't contain himself. "What the hell happened?"

The cigarette light glimmered ominously. "You would think someone with several graduate degrees from an Ivy League would know how to communicate with other than fists."

Dean took a moment for it to sink in. "Your Dad...did this?"

Tristan blew out smoke and Dean suppressed the urge to cough. "Before disowning me totally and calling me names. Sticks and bones, mister. And then had some muscles-R-us to escort me back to the school."

"But..?"

"But like I said, I run very very well. Had a lifetime of practice. The only skill I've acquired in life, even. It finally paid off."

A son of a well-off elite family, getting beat up by his own father and running away from it all. For Dean, it seemed right out of some drama, far from his own life that self-confessedly contained nothing out of ordinary, hard to imagine.

Being treated like that by his own father was even harder to imagine.

Tristan wouldn't want, need, sympathy, Dean thought. And that limited the possible responses Dean could come up with. The school didn't teach him the stuff that really mattered, like what to say in such situations.

Dean got up to walk over to the garbage can and dug out a six-pack. He opened one of them and walked back to hand it to Tristan.

Dean could feel, rather than see, Tristan's eyebrow arching. "Getting sneaky for your old age?"

Dean shrugged. His father's sudden inspections had been getting insistent lately and he had had to use the century old trick of hiding stuff in the garbage can, but Dean very much doubted if any of them wanted to talk about their fathers at this point. "This's all I've got to offer as consolation," he waved the beer at him, "Take it or leave it."

Tristan finished an entire can without an intake of breath. "You're turning me into an alcoholic."

Joke, jab, something light and sarcastic. Dean could deal with that. "And I'm responsible for the Dark Age and destroying the Ozon layer?"

"At least you're man enough to admit it."

"Somebody better be."

Now what? Dean asked himself because he was unwilling to ask Tristan. He didn't know if this running fiesta was something permanent, whether Dean should even be talking to him now rather than calling his parents.

Then Dean saw Tristan's face again.

It was decided. "You can stay here," Dean said, putting an effort to sound casual. "Or at my house, if you can put up with my folks. They're gonna ask questions after a couple of days."

If Dean had ever wondered if he'd put up with Tristan before only because of beer, he just found out. Sometimes, the world was too much.

There was a second of frozen moment. Dean suddenly wished for some light, to see Tristan's face, read his expression.

"I'm leaving," Tristan said, the voice now carefully composed, emotions hidden. "Just needed a place to sit down and think for a bit for tonight, to get my act together. Where they wouldn't look."

"Come to my place, then. And take a shower first, 'cause you stink."

Tristan laughed for the first time that night, but it was no longer edged or wounded. If anything, he sounded...free.

The realization dawned on Dean. "You're not going back." It wasn't a question.

"Clever boy."

If it were any other person speaking in any other way, Dean would have tell him to go back, not to kid himself. But it was Tristan, and Dean saw no hesitation in him. Serious angst, yes, but not hesitation. His mind was already made up.

"So. Going to do your own saving?"

"That's the idea, yeah." Clearly, Tristan wasn't in the mood to elaborate.

Dean looked at Tristan's face once more and gave in. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere I want."

"Send a postcard."

"Sure," Tristan answered easily. "In exchange for the car you promised."

Dean snorted. "I don't recall promising you anything."

"Still hurt, huh?"

Couldn't admit, nor deny. A classical conundrum, Dean thought.

"You're an idiot," Tristan promptly declared.

"Speak for yourself."

"We both are," Tristan amended.

Dean saw Tristan, and the stuff that frighteningly resembled worry boggled in his mind. He kicked the can he'd been abusing, all venting on frustration, "Dammit, you're such a jackass. Tell me you have a plan. You're so gonna kill yourself out there."

Dean swore he saw a ghost of smile across Tristan's face. "Is that a hint of worry I detect?"

Dean kicked the can a bit more. "In your dreams."

Momentarily, Tristan's gaze stayed on Dean's face. Then he turned away. "I have friends," Tristan said, "All these friends from Chilton, gangs I hung out with. And the only place I felt like paying a visit was here. I kinda wonder why."

That didn't help, Dean thought grumpily. That meant absolutely too much, and Dean, with his inarticulate brain, still couldn't find any comforting words For Tristan.

Tristan casually threw a cigarette on the ground. "When I come back, I'll trust a car to be ready on my account."

"Does that mean you will come back?" Dean surprised himself by asking the question. He surprised himself even more by actually hoping the answer would be a 'yes'.

"Blood red, convertible and MP3 player. Gotta have PJ Harvey in it, or no deal."

That reminded Dean. "What's with you and PJ Harvey?"

A furtive smile was all Dean got as an answer. "Now," Tristan said, stretching his arms and haphazardly throwing small stones out of the way to make a room to lie down on the ground. "Get the hell outta here. Go home to your precious family. I'm gonna get some sleep."

Before Dean could say "Role reversal much?", Tristan was already all stretched out, eyes closed. Dean shook his head.

When Dean came back with a sleeping bag, Band-Aids and some sandwiches, Tristan looked asleep. Gingerly, Dean tucked him in under the bag, settling on his side when finished. Leaving him here alone was unthinkable.

Dean stole a cigarette from Tristan's pack and lay back too, looking up at the now-familiar night sky.

Doing your own saving. Dean thought maybe he understood it, what Tristan meant. Sometimes people only saw their value of existence in others. They would like to be respected and loved, the meaning of their existence being confirmed because you were loved back.

Dean saw something special, something that he had never seen before, in Rory. The fact that she liked him back wasn't just a simple boost in self-esteem. It had almost seemed like he had some sort of meaning in this world, that he meant something to this world, because Rory, at that moment the representation of the best the world had to offer to him, liked him back. Because he meant something to Rory.

So when Dean had realized that wasn't the truth, the world came crumbling down on him.

It was the time to go back and be himself. To do his own saving and be himself, to write the new script, to introduce variations in narrative inevitability.

When the morning came, they didn't shake hands. They said no goodbyes. They didn't wish each other good luck. It wasn't their way. Dean only nodded, and Tristan, his hands in his pockets and a PJ Harvey Dean had very reluctantly handed to him, turned away.

Tristan was going to be all right. Dean knew.

Before he completely disappeared, Tristan suddenly turned on his heels. "Maybe before I go, might as well see his face. That guy, whatzhisname."

Dean almost laughed. Gleefully imagining what could happen, he said, "Don't make too much trouble."

Tristan smirked. "What trouble?"

* * *

By the end of the next day, Dean heard bits and pieces of rumor from the town grapevine that Tristan made appearance in front of Rory and Jess, interrupting them at an important moment. Tristan had received somewhat of a warm welcome from Rory, but not at all of welcome from Jess, who, after five minutes, took a swing at Tristan.

Dean chuckled, and wished he had been there to observe the spectacle. Of course, he wouldn't have remained as an observer for long. So, Tristan still had in him to pull off his god-given infuriating jackass role after all. Dean had thought that might not work on Jess, always the cool one, but Jess had fared no better than Dean had previously.

The life wasn't going to make things any easier for him. Pain did not disappear. It was still as acute as ever, the hole still empty. But if it wasn't going to change, he was going to have to make some changes for himself. He would have to go forward himself, to do things.

He passed the bus bench, Rory's bench, but didn't linger for a moment.

He came home, called the number Amanda had given him, and took the job.

Amanda came to visit him later.

There wouldn't be any repeated performance, he vowed, no more struggling. He was writing a new script.

* * *

Next morning, he spectacularly tripped over something that fell on the floor instead of his alarm clock at his rather violent waking ritual. The small book was open and the first line read, 'In my beginning is my end'.

He thought, this gotta be a sign.

In my beginning is my end. He didn't know what it was supposed to mean, whether it was oxymoron or paradox, both, or something else entirely. It mattered because the book right next to T.S. Eliot lay War and Peace, and he knew he had, like heroes and anti-heroes of any tale, made back a full circle. This had to be a sign. Sure, it took much longer for the protagonists of Tolstoy sagas, but Dean was pretty sure getting over Rory could not be a life story of Tolstoy proportions, and that this would end now.

He came to a full circle. This was his denouement, the end.

He thought, I'm over her.

It was a wondrous feeling, one that quite defied any kind of description. He was moving on. Slowly, but not agonizingly, he was moving on. He could feel himself moving on. He had moved on. Felt it in every moment of time that was flowing like air. So he happily let himself feel pride, for learning, for growing up, for letting go. He was at peace.

So naturally, this was when a new variation, a twist, came into play, making violent waves like an anvil dropped into a placid lake.

By the time the midnight phone call came from Lorelai for the fifth time, he wasn't thinking about Rory as much as he was worried for Lorelai. But this time, the conversation took on an entirely different meaning.

"My father, he--Dean, another stroke. Rory was supposed to be home hours ago, she took my car...Sookie's away on a trip... Had to call a cab but it's not here, and it's been... I--I don't think I can, Luke--" she stopped, hysteria suddenly dying down. "Dean, I didn't know who else to call."

If he hadn't been too shocked, he would have answered three sentences ago. Dean grabbed his keys, jacket, and wallet at once and stood on his feet.

"I'll be right there."

Things always came crashing down without a warning.

* * *

Lorelai did not speak. Lorelai did not pace.

Dean disliked empty hallways of any building. Building was there for people to live in, and hallways connected people in it. An empty hallway seemed to tell that people just no longer cared about one another, no connections. It seemed...lonely.

This hospital hallway, white and falsely bright, also seemed lonely, despite its three occupants.

Lorelai did not speak. Lorelai did not pace.

Everything was white here, in this waiting room. So white and organized and pungent in its hospital odor. On the side table of the chairs they were sitting on, several cups of coffee, water bottles, chocolate wrappers and cold sandwiches disturbed the squeaky clean look of the hallway, but nothing else disrupted the whiteness of this place. Lorelai did not touch the food, not even the coffee Dean had bought from the cafe across the hospital because he'd thought it didn't feel right Lorelai should drink the tasteless bending machine coffee, not even in this situation. The only person who did touch the food was Rory's grandmother, who had taken an entire bottle of water when she'd been told to wait, and that no, they couldn't tell her when the operation might end. That was three hours ago.

Lorelai did not speak. She did not pace.

What she did do was sitting on the chair, wordless. The only thing she had said ever since he had picked her up was a small, inaudible 'Thanks' and where to go. This frightened him. From what he'd heard and known, Rory's grandmother was also not the sort of person who would wait for things to happen sitting down. From what he knew, the both Gilmore ladies should be out there at the front desk, demanding answers and cause all the manner of trouble right about now. They said nothing, did nothing, only sitting and waiting. This, too, frightened Dean.

"Must be his cholesterol level," Mrs. Gilmore said, out of the blue.

Dean waited for Lorelai's standard quip that would make light mockery out of everything; it didn't come.

"Should start on that organic vegetarian diet," Mrs. Gilmore continued, thoughtful and matter-of-fact, "That should help. And less wine."

Lorelai said nothing.

"I should sign him up for a gym class," Mrs. Gilmore said a minute later, as if it just occurred to her.

Still nothing.

"No, I should set up a gym in our house," Mrs. Gilmore said, now frowning. "Richard would hate driving up to a gym by himself."

Nothing.

Rory's grandfather. In the hospital. Second stroke. This dangerous second stroke that was most likely to kill him.

Lorelai's father. In the hospital.

Yeah. Dean could understand Lorelai's silence.

Mrs. Gilmore went on about almost everything that she could, would, do about Rory's grandfather's health, as if he weren't in the hospital already. Almost instinctively she did not talk about this being Richard's second stroke, or it'd been several hours but no one had yet to tell them anything.

"Where's Rory?" Mrs. Gilmore asked abruptly in the middle of discussing the matter of hiring a cook who knew of organic cooking, and Dean froze.

She looked at him, not Lorelai, and for all the world, Dean wished he wasn't here. "I don't know, Mrs. Gilmore." The truth was, he had no wish to know.

"Not here."

Dean almost jumped in surprised when Lorelai spoke the first time in what seemed like hours.

"Rory was supposed to be home when you called me, Mom," Lorelai said, narrating in a flat, dull voice. "Was supposed to help me with Sookie's birthday present. I didn't have my car because she took it. Dean gave me a ride."

Mrs. Gilmore's lips pressed into a thin line as she observed Dean. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I thought you two broke up," she commented clinically.

What was there to say? "We did."

Mrs. Gilmore regarded him keenly for the first time tonight. Slowly, she said, "Thank you."

Dean nodded, because 'You're welcome' felt somewhat condescending, and because if he started to speak, he would want to tell them that Richard would be fine, want to lie to them, want to reassure them. But what was the point of lying when there was no hope of them believing it at all?

Sudden footsteps echoed in the hallway, tailed by a tall woman in a whitecoat and a nurse, and Dean did jump up this time. Lorelai and Mrs. Gilmore made no move, as if dreading what was to come.

The sympathetic-doctor-of-the-day approached them, her expression soft, "Ms. Gilmore?"

"Yes," Mrs. Gilmore stood up slowly, almost determinedly, her chin up and her hands on her purse. "How is he?"

The doctor looked grave. "For now, he is stable."

Dean let out the breath he was holding. Mrs. Gilmore, whose strain had visibly lessened, quickly pressed for more, and they both left quietly, discussing his condition.

Lorelai stared at the floor. Her hands grabbed the chair handles so hard that they were knuckle-white.

"I thought," she said, whispering voice, "I thought I really lost him this time."

Dean had a few good inches on anyone including Lorelai, but she had never looked smaller before. She was always big and large, this mystical creature of energy who swept through every room like a gut wind, who could overpower everyone with a single smile, the power that seemed to have been inherited down to Rory as well.

Lorelai never looked this small in his eye, not like this, ever.

Dean remembered Rory's words that the visible gap still existed between Lorelai and Richard, even now. What would that mean to Lorelai? What she must carry with her underneath her smile... Everyone had their demons to carry.

Before he thought through anything, he found himself sitting down beside her, his way of telling her that he was here. She was still looking down, but as if reading him, she told him softly, "Thank you."

Dean nodded and was about to reply when he saw, from the corner of his eye, two figures appearing from the end of the hallway. He numbly thought: the doctor and Mrs. Gilmore. He was wrong.

"Mom." "Lorelai."

Dean recognized the voices; so did Lorelai. Lorelai stiffened right away, and Dean, in turn, sighed and leaned against the chair, his fingers rubbing at the temple. He had known this moment would come, but it was too fast, too early. He didn't feel ready.

Rory and Luke stopped in front of them, breathless. Rory's face was flushed, her hair and clothes wet. Luke's clothes and cap weren't faring any better.

It must be raining, Dean thought absently. Raining in Stars Hollow. It sounded wrong somehow.

"Mom, Grandpa--"

Lorelai didn't look at Rory. Lorelai looked beyond her, at Luke, then turned to Dean. Her expression was inscrutable, but Dean knew it was asking a question.

"I left Luke a message." To get to Jess, and ultimately, Rory. It had worked, apparently.

"You shouldn't have," Lorelai said, her voice sharp and cutting.

There was no smile on her face, and Dean was afraid that Lorelai might just walk away, ignoring them all. But she didn't. Because, just then, Luke tentatively took steps toward her.

"Lorelai," Luke spoke almost urgently, his hand reaching out to her. It almost touched her shoulder, but not quite. "Lorelai... I'm sorry."

Lorelai looked up at Luke for a moment, then her head fell slowly, gradually. As Dean thought her eyes were filling with tears, her hand reached up to Luke's chest, clutching his shirts.

"He's going to recover," a short, hiccup-like sob escaped her, her hair cascading and shadowing her face, "He's going to be okay."

"Yeah," Luke said so softly that Dean had to strain to hear.

When the tears subsided, Lorelai stood up, wanting to talk to the doctor. Luke, his hand on her arm, followed her.

If Dean wasn't so intent on the girl standing beyond them, he would've been surprised at Luke's rare demonstration of gentle concerns for Lorelai, and Lorelai's frank emotional display. It would've occurred to him that finally, finally, Lorelai and Luke's non-speaking period had ended. He even would have thought of the future blackmail material on Luke and rejoiced. He would've thought of all of these, all consciously, if it weren't for Rory.

Rory looked after her mom, her soft features stricken as if she was slapped on her face.

Lorelai had not once acknowledged her daughter.

* * *

The chair used to be white, he noticed, the white that matched the wall and the ceiling of the hospital. Now the color had faded and the chair had been scratched once too many, and it had turned almost beige. His back hunched and the hands entwined, Dean stared at the plastic chair he was sitting on until his eyes hurt.

Rory was sitting on the chair beside his, and like mother like daughter, had not moved as she had crumbled on it since Lorelai had left. He would have thought she was in a catatonic state if it weren't the slight tremble that seemed to shoot through her once in a while. She, too, was staring at her chair, waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting for her mother and grandma to come back. Waiting for some news on her grandpa. Waiting for her mom to speak to her.

To forgive her.

Dean didn't look at her, because no matter how he had braced himself so far, if he took one look at her, he would have to hold her then. And he couldn't do that. Shouldn't.

So instead, he said, "It's a give and take."

Rory's head snapped up. There were tears welling up in her eyes, he noted, and there was every indication she had heard him but not understood him.

"You got to give up something to get something. Lorelai might not understand, but Jess obviously does. I--" Dean stopped. This wasn't his place to be. He shouldn't. "Lorelai will come around," he finished off, looking away.

He made an observation of the chair once more and stood up. It seemed the hardest labor ever, just to stand up. "I should go," he said.

He almost lost his equilibrium when a hand, her hand, touched his. "Stay?" her voice crumbled, "I need a friend."

Her touch, even when her hand seemed frozen cold, burned his skin.

He couldn't.

"I can't be your friend, Rory."

"Why?" An innocent, pained, question, the one she shouldn't be asking for so many reasons.

Because that wasn't how things worked? Because he would do something incredibly foolish if he stayed? Because he had no mentality of a friend who wished all the good things without any motive? Because he couldn't be her friend and not hold her like he used to? Because he still loved her?

He choked down a lump in his throat and shut his eyes.

"You know why."

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!

Dean walked and walked and walked, not once turning back to see her, her hurt expression, her wounded eyes that watched him leave. He turned the first corner, then he breathed, opened his eyes. For the first time, he ached for a cigarette.

This wasn't happening. He had thought, he had thought--

This wasn't happening.

A payphone was just across the front desk. By some mysterious force at work, he walked over and slipped in a quarter. He pressed the number somehow he had memorized.

When the familiar voice picked up, he spoke nonstop, "I don't like you. I've made it no secret that my great joy will be punching you in the face. But if you're half as smart as Rory seems to think you are, then you should be here. With her."

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

He leaned against the wall, his forehead touching its cool surface. He had held the corner of the plastic square phone booth too hard that his hands felt bruised. He wasn't going to think what he had just done, because no guy in his right mind would just refuse a chance to get back the girl of his dreams, because it was stupid, stupid, stupid--

He stopped himself, because a second longer like that, he could surely break something. He whirled around instead.

And Rory was there, barely a few feet away from him. She was watching him, her eyes infinitely pained and her hands shaky.

She had heard his call to Jess.

For the life of his, Dean couldn't figure out what thoughts must be going through her head.

"Why?" when she asked softly, her tears were back in place, the pain still too raw in her eyes.

Because at least this, he could do for her.

He began, "I..."

He didn't finish, because he couldn't.

The moment froze between them.

The distance between them, he could cross it, now. One mere step, and he could cross it. He could get her back, if he did. He thought Rory, too, wished that. If he held her hand. If he were to lean over and kiss her. If he became her comforting shoulders. If he crossed this distance between them. Regardless of consequences. Then the aching in his heart finally would cease.

"Rory?"

Mrs. Gilmore.

Mere few feet. If Rory decided to cross the distance, he might have a chance. That maybe, he could have her back. Something he had scarcely hoped for.

She didn't cross the gap between them.

Mere few feet that symbolized everything. There was too much ambiguity, too much unspoken. Too much he couldn't bear.

She was too far away.

Mrs. Gilmore stood behind her, her brief puzzlement turning into an understanding when she saw Dean.

This was not his place to be.

"I gotta go."

Mrs. Gilmore. "Dean?"

He didn't stop running until he got to his car.

It was raining outside, still. In the parking lot, he kicked a harmless garbage can, because his newfound fragile, precious peace was broken and he had to at least hit something.

Because if this renewed ache in his chest meant anything, this story was going to turn into Tolstoy proportion.

Life wasn't a story. Life threw curveballs at denouement.

* * *

TBC.


	6. Pathetic Fallacy and Expiration Dates

First of all, I have to apologize for my pathological slowness, as school and work now govern my life. However, when I do update, it'll be in long and fatty chapters. Secondly, whoa, I feel so...loved. Thank you for the amazing feedback. While I don't deserve such high praises, I am glowing happily because of them. Now I'm just worried that I'll never meet the expectation. Sigh. ;)

6: Pathetic Fallacy and Expiration Dates

* * *

I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,  
Of worry and strain and doubt;  
Before we begin, let us view the end,  
And maybe I'll do without.  
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,  
And toss in the night I won't--  
So either you do or you don't, my dear,  
Either you do or you don't!

--'Ultimatum', Dorothy Parker

* * *

He had this fever-induced dream, where things broke into pieces. He was, by nature, a simple guy. Despite the evidence of the late that seemed to point to the contrary, he liked being simple, no deep-harbored darkness that ruled his subconscious. The problems always had been about struggling with the outside conflicts, not the inner stuff. It was one law he tried to abide by. Be simple.

Lately, this little law of his was becoming rapidly un-lawed.

In his dream, a door that led to an empty room revolved and whirlwinded, ripples of the lake turned into violent tides, and the houses broke to pieces around him, piece by piece. Then the cars. Then the people. Then him. All in pieces.

It was a descent. A slow one, by the feel of his skin, but fast, according to time. It was desolating. Frightening in its loneliness. The curious thing was, he knew this feeling. Somewhere far into his memory, he remembered feeling this exact sensation.

He woke up, sweat beading on his forehead and hands trembling.

This wasn't about Rory or her inability to love him, really love him. At least he liked deluding himself.

"See, I figured it all out," Amanda gushed out on the phone one evening, "People. They're all bored. They're all absolutely bored out of their life. That's why they're always talking about goals of their little pathetic lives, glorious careers, and painstaking dating rituals. For the most part of your life, you aren't consciously aware of this boredom because people always keep busy. Keeping busy is like a part of a grand self-deceiving plan from realizing that the hole in your heart is meaningless, you're meaningless, the things that you are doing are meaningless and the whole world is meaningless and you will just wither away and eventually become a pile of manure."

"Is there a cure for it?" Dean asked a moment later, after he had sufficiently collected himself. Amanda, another brand of philosopher. It was surprising, to say the least.

"Hmm, if the whole Pulitzer winning novels have any point about the slice of life narrative approach thing, that's why people want love desperately. Because, supposedly, love gives all the meaning there's to it. Love makes them forget of this...meaninglessness. I don't like being bored, so I do my best to make my life interesting. I don't care what others think."

Love giving all the meaning. Amanda's theory sounded rather alarmingly accurate, which meant he was turning into a sap, which was a Bad News with capitals. He had a feeling that he didn't want to analyze any kind of philosophy--not Amanda's, and certainly not his own. He changed the subject, "So, the no-boredom philosophy is why you made the freshman cry today, the one who confessed his undying love for you?" An incident that had helped building Amanda's bitch reputation which was already amounting high.

"The kid deserved it. Like I said, I don't care what other people think. Not, mind you, in the fashion of Jess the Outsider. I prize myself to be different from those types."

He didn't want to talk about Jess and the name that inevitably followed after that, but he had to for the sake of achieving a decent conversation. "You know Jess?"

"Nope, but this is Stars Hollow. I get to hear things, and Jess ain't the most popular lad in town. Well, I never exchanged extensive philosophical points of view with him, but I'm a firm believer that trying not to be truly bored of life doesn't mean you're allowed to 'seduce' someone else's gal. Even I don't do that."

Dean left a significant pause, and Amanda laughed. "Okay, maybe I did." She added shortly after, "But you said no, Dean. Rory didn't."

That hurt, because that about summed up his whole relationship with Rory way too effectively.

"You never bore me," Amanda concluded.

"Give it time. You will change your mind." After all, Amanda hadn't known him that long. It wouldn't take too long for her to run away from him screaming.

"I'm not your ex."

Guilty, he thought. "I didn't say you were. And I'm sure there have been lots of others who didn't bore you."

"Well, you're the first one who's actually nice."

There was that 'nice' word again. That useless, stupid 'nice'.

"Amanda, I'm not what you want me to be," he said quietly, truthfully.

A short pause. "I'm supposed to be the judge of that, not you."

He said nothing. When she invited him over for a movie night at her place to celebrate his first day at the internship, he still said nothing. She took it as a 'yes'. He didn't say no. He was selfish, wasn't he? He was just so damn selfish. And he didn't want to be. But forgetting the desolation seemed easier around people. Forgetting loneliness seemed easier around Amanda. Maybe because she never left him alone.

Amanda was right. He, too, was plagued by boredom of life.

He went over to her house through the pouring rain that plagued the town, half out of obligation and half out of misery. They watched a movie called 'Chungking Express', following Amanda's claim that Hong Kong movies were not all Jet Li and Jackie Chan. When the blue and black and white shades of the opening scene unfolded on the screen, he thought of ridiculously made-for-TV and ridiculously absurd movies Rory and Lorelai had forced him to watch that were horribly pastel-colored. When the protagonist consumed thirty one cans of pineapple to commemorate the break-up with his girlfriend and ran like hell in the rain, Dean thought it hit way too close to home. When the protagonist found a small solace in a mysterious blond-wigged lady, this was no longer just hitting close to home; it was at home and pounding at it to break it down.

Amanda leaned against his shoulder, and her perfume -- some exotic flowers, strong and way too effective -- basked him.

/If my memory of her has an expiration date, let it be 10,000 years.../ The protagonist mumbled in the background.

Her hand reached his shoulder and he said, "I'm using you."

"We're all using each other. By all means, use me."

/If my memory of her has an expiration date, let it be 10,000 years.../

It wasn't that he didn't ache for a warm touch and a hand to hold him, because he did ache, despairingly, for them. It wasn't that he was a saint with a will of steel who could resist such advances, because he wasn't. It wasn't that he didn't like Amanda, because he did. Simply, there were some lines he wasn't ready to cross. That he would never cross, even at the expense of ditching this desolation of life.

If his memory of her had an expiration date, he would never find out.

"You know I can't," he said.

Amanda stared at him for a long moment until she sighed and turned off the screen. "See what I mean? You're never boring."

"I thought about why. Hard. Why things have to be like this. I wasn't sure before, but I think I know now. Rory...she made me forget about boredom."

Amanda took it better than he'd thought. The rest of evening they watched Simpsons and Battlebots. He went home at nine, and she kissed him on his cheek, bidding a good night. When he said good night, she smiled -- the smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"At least you tried, for me. Thanks," she said, her voice soft, just before she closed the door.

It rained all night.

When he dreamed again, it was of closed doors and pineapple cans, pouring rains and the people suffocated by loneliness.

* * *

Not so many people spent the night at the hospital. Its cafeteria was empty except for the two occupants at the far corner. Luke stared at some mysterious spots on the white table, and Lorelai, across him, fingered her coffee mug.

"I can't forgive her," she said, all gloomy.

"Lorelai..."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. You just won't."

She glared at him. "If you try to mesmerize me with the cliché-fest one more time I'm gonna hit you hard and brutally with this Heinz bottle so help me God!"

Just around the corner, Dean wondered whether he should join the bickering couple.

Richard Gilmore's room was off-limit. The option of leaving the flowers at the front desk was suddenly no longer appealing, and Dean had easily found the way to the cafeteria instead.

Water beads dripped from the vinyl wrapping of the flowers and his leather jacket, making small pools of rain on the floor. The white petals of camellias seemed unnaturally bright under the florescent light of the hospital, and Dean thought the flowers didn't look half as pretty as they had been when he bought them. But the scent...the plain yet somehow exotic scent of them still remained in the air. He imagined the scent quietly spreading in the stale odor of the corridor.

The scent of camellias was alluring, relaxing. Basked in it, he thought for a moment.

He thought he hadn't seen Luke or Lorelai for a couple of days and he always loved their company. He thought he might have to actually talk to them, though, if he were to walk over there right now. He thought he wasn't sure he wanted the inevitable talk with Lorelai that always seemed to lead to something he wasn't ready to face. He thought this might not be a good idea. But all the thoughts did no good, because:

"Dean!" said Lorelai, waving at him.

No way out now, he sighed to himself.

He slowly walked out from the corner, trying excessively hard to smile. "Lorelai. Luke."

Lorelai churned out a charming smile as if she hadn't been discussing her daughter with all the gloom that she could possibly conjure up a minute ago. Luke only said, expressionless, "You're dripping all over the floor."

Dean said, "Rain." And running in it. By all his rights, he should be shivering under wet clothes. Strangely, he felt nothing. It was only vaguely bothersome because he was like this walking flood.

When Dean was absently wondering what to do, Luke pulled out a towel from somewhere and threw it at him. It landed squarely on Dean's head.

Slowly, Dean pulled down the towel that was draped over his head and gritted out, "Thanks."

Luke was definitely, definitely hiding a smile. "Don't mention it."

"It's still raining?" Lorelai frowned, "This is so very Pathetic Fallacy." When Dean and Luke stared at her blankly, Lorelai began, point-by-point, "A fallacy in which feelings are identified with the weather in texts such as poems and fictions, sometimes often associated with...what? I'm a literary person. I do literary things and say literary things and has Rory as my daughter who would recite those things many times more than I care to count to the extent of me memorizing the whole thing."

"So," Dean said, slowly, "this rainy weather reflects our moods?"

"Supposedly."

"Or it could just mean that we're all very pathetic," Luke said.

"Or that, yes," was Lorelai's answer.

Silence. Luke stared at the spots on the table, and Lorelai played with her mug.

Dean could safely guess this was what they had been doing all night long--verbal judos after a periodic silence. "So, how's...?" He didn't dare to finish the question.

Lorelai caught up quickly, "Better. He's better."

Dean tried not to read into her dark expression. "They're not letting you in to see him yet?"

"No, and I'm annoyed."

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

"Nah," she shrugged. She then proceeded to kick Luke under the table. "Did you hear me, Luke? I'm annoyed."

Luke only said, "Okay."

From Lorelai's expression, Dean could practically hear the verbal ping-pong relay gearing up and ready to go. "I hate being annoyed," she said.

Luke, on the art of annoying Lorelai even more. "Okay."

"Please feel free to make me not annoyed."

"Not okay."

"But what of your pretty, pretty magic wand, oh fairly godmother? Aren't you supposed to use it for good deeds?"

Luke frowned. "Coffee does cause insanity, check."

"You could use the flipper instead. Your magic flipper."

"The what?"

"The scoop thing you use to flip things on the grill, things like eggs and burgers and all the greasy goodness that you attempt to deprive me of. Flipper."

"It is not called a flipper."

"It flips. Hence a flipper."

"It is not called a flipper."

"Can I call you a flipper then?"

"...No."

"But you flip."

"I do not flip."

"I can tell you I've distinctly seen you flip things many, many times."

"My flipping is none of your business."

"Can I make it my business?"

Dean, the only audience, almost choked.

Luke and Lorelai collectively glared at him, and Dean coughed. "Nothing. No, uh, I was just thinking if this was what people call 'live entertainment'. It's very...entertaining."

Lorelai scowled at him. "And free admission is not appreciated, so pay up--uh, hey, wow, are they camellias?" She saw what Dean was trying to hide underneath his chair and reached for it.

Busted. "Um, yeah," Dean admitted.

"Dad's favorite." She delicately touched the large white petals almost in amazement, took in the scent. When she looked up at Dean, a happy smile lit up her entire face. "I haven't seen this in a long time. It must've been extremely hard to find."

"I was downtown, uh, my new job's there. I just saw it and thought, you know, your father might like it." Which was a total lie, of course. Richard supposedly liked flowers with difficult names and different tree flowers that were definitely not florist friendly. Dean hadn't even known what camellias looked like to begin with, and he had gone through five florists on the assumption that at least one shop had to have it.

There was no fooling with Lorelai, who obviously knew this. She put down the flower to the table and gave him an appreciative look. "Thank you, Dean. Dad'll just love it."

Luke was cheering her up just by being here, but Lorelai looked so happy with the camellias that he thought that maybe she could use all kinds of cheering up. He thought of the half-crushed flower in his inner pocket that he had had no intention of showing to anyone. He took it out carefully and found it miraculously intact.

"And...this," Dean put it down to the table, embarrassed. The flower looked lonely by itself, with its small violet petals and a short stem that seemed to complain its early demise.

Luke eyed it suspiciously. "And this is..."

"Azaleas. Lorelai, remember? Once, Rory read this poem and we didn't know what azaleas looked like and you wondered whether these obscure flowers actually do sell and whether you'd actually see it once in your life. Well, here. I just saw the name tag, and you know, bought one."

Lorelai stared at the flower for a long time.

Then she looked at him without a word. Dean couldn't figure out her expression. It was as if she couldn't decided whether to be angry or sad or touched. Like she saw through him. Like she understood everything.

And it was way too uncomfortable. "It was just an impulse," he told her, looking away, "It doesn't mean anything, Lorelai."

"Of course it does. It means you're sweet and thoughtful, you'd definitely be off the market if I was just ten years younger, and my daughter can be just so stupid sometimes."

He stared at the flowers on the table. Pinkish violet of azaleas crashed with the large white petals of camellias. Roses and tulips would've made a better pair than them.

"This isn't for Rory," he said.

"I know," said Lorelai.

Luke, naturally, said nothing, but looked significantly uncomfortable. Silence showed every sign of descending on them again, and Lorelai, after moment of collecting herself, put a stop to it.

"So," she said, her expression suddenly transforming into the one of a sunny day, "Heard you snatched a fancy internship downtown playing with cars--Lane told me about it. You know," she drew her index finger, "chicks just dig guys with slick, sexy cars."

Luke rolled his eyes conspicuously. "Do they now."

"Luke, are you contradicting me on the matter of the babe psyche? How daring of you. Dean, tell him."

"Uh." Dean decided it would be good for his well being and his future coffee consumption rate to stick with one-vowel answers. "Well."

"Well what?" Lorelai probed.

"I just like cars. I mean, cars are better than people."

"They are?" Luke arched his eyebrow.

"They are. It's just...hard to explain." He couldn't explain that he loved to feel the engine hum underneath his skin, the vibration that spoke length without a single word. That he loved when it moved according to his will, his wheel, the way it was always under his control. That he loved every single thing about cars and never that happy with people.

Lorelai suddenly spoke, "Cars don't betray; people do. If something goes wrong with a car you made, the chances are, you can check and know what you did wrong, what went wrong. You just can't do that with people. It doesn't work that beautifully with people." She turned to Dean, her face masked with a bright smile which didn't hide her eyes -- the eyes that said otherwise. "Is that any close?"

Close. Too close that it hurt.

Because Rory was all Lorelai had.

"Lorelai, I... Rory--" Dean stopped when he saw Luke shaking his head. "Close enough," Dean said, finally, with a forced lightness. "But I'll still have to go with the sexy cars and chicks theory."

Their smiles were facade.

Dean wasn't angry. He wasn't angry with Rory. If he hadn't been angry with Rory when she dropped him like a sack of potatoes over Jess, and he could certainly never be angry with Rory over this, he was sure.

He couldn't even be angry, and he desperately wanted to be.

Dean stared at the flowers and thought how they looked much prettier before this, before hospital. He stared at the coffee mug and thought how it was like him, this white ceramic mug cup. A little chipped on the side, but still usable, resilient. Cheap, often to be seen with the hundred likes of it in A Dollar Stores. Chipped, broken, but still recycled. That was him.

Expensive and breakable china, Tristan. A thick clay coffee mug with some obscure paintings, the one preferred by college students and the so-called intellectuals and used for their coffee breaks: Jess. He was this broken mug. He felt very much broken.

Or maybe he was a Styrofoam cup, quick to be used and even quicker to be discarded. Yeah, that sounded like him, too.

Being pathetic had to have some sort of limit, he thought. This just wasn't acceptable.

Lorelai's cell phone rang, interrupting his pathetic line of thoughts and bringing him back from the world of broken cups. She didn't look very happy when she hung up.

"Rory will be here soon," Lorelai announced, not really looking at Dean. After a moment of hesitation, she blurted out, "With Jess."

Dean stood up immediately. "I have to go."

Lorelai stood up after him. Her hand was on his shoulder, her voice soft, "Dean. Dean, you don't have to go."

Well, yes, he had to. And Lorelai would be okay; she had Luke. "I'm not here for Rory."

Lorelai met his eyes, her voice was still soft, but it was also stern, "Then there is no reason to avoid her."

"I still love your daughter, Lorelai. That's a good enough reason."

Back in Chicago, he used to ride Metra train at night. He hadn't known anything that seemed felt deeper than the silence of the empty parking lots he had looked down from the train, but he knew now.

Dean made a point of avoiding their eyes, whatever emotions they might hold. He didn't want to know.

"I see," Lorelai said finally. "I see."

Luke said nothing.

Dean left the flowers on the table.

When he came out, it was just inevitable that he had to see them. At the entrance of the hospital, the two stood. He watched from around the corner, waiting. Jess stood beside Rory. It was his imagination that her head stayed fallen, her eyes only following the pattern of the ground bricks. It was his imagination that she didn't look at Jess, not once.

It had to be his imagination. A wishful thinking.

He searched for another exit.

Pathetic Fallacy was right. When he slipped out from the hospital, it was still raining.

* * *

Interlude:

This has to end.

"Honey, open the door."

This has to end.

"Dean, open the door. Please? You're scaring me."

The world is whirling around him.

"Dean!"

He would, he really would, if he can just get up. If only he can get up.

The world is whirling around him.

The ceiling is white, as it always has been.

So is the wall of his room.

There are grey cracks on his window. Curtains slightly dusty. They block mild sunrays from entering. Shadows everywhere.

Desk. Computer, white and black monitor. Clock, brown and circular. Keyboard, rectangle. Frames, oak and square and dusted and forgotten. Door that keeps revolving in his dreams, open and close, open and close, then close again. Phone that does not ring.

Under his desk, a small shelf for old textbooks. The Catcher in the Rye, The One Who Flew Over Cuckoo's Nest, The Lord of the Flies, War and Peace.

War and Peace.

The world is whirling.

Hands clammy. Feeble. Head feels light, too light. The bed sheet is cold. He is cold.

A loud crack and a thud. The door opens, and a cool hand finds his forehead.

"He's burning up."

"He came home drenched in rain the other day."

Movements. People are all around him, surrounding him. Cool water on his lips.

"Drink, Dean. You need to take this."

A firm voice that demands his obedience. Dragging himself up painfully, swallowing a pill. His mouth tastes like ashes.

He tries to speak; nothing comes out.

"What's that, honey?" Mom, immediately on his side. Worried.

More water, and ashes slowly dissolve.

"...am fine," he rasps.

"Dean--"

"I...am."

He isn't, not really in the sense that everything is okay. But he is fine, at least when it comes to this cold because it can't nearly hurt as much as something else he suffers from.

He cannot understand. He cannot. This drags on like a bad soap opera with sour tangy aftertaste, no sweetener. There can be no bitter soap opera, because by definition, it's supposed to be sweet, sickeningly sweet. Yet it is still here, this bitter melodrama, this candle that does not burn out.

This has to end, this has to end, the fever has to be gone as has Rory, this time for certain because he let her go, and this has to end.

Hurting now is ever the more bearable option than the prospect of falling, falling, falling again, to go on living with the inevitability of the end.

This has to end.

* * *

Hot, hot, hot.

On an afternoon, amidst the haze of the hot sunrays and exhaustion, he found himself sitting on the bench at the bus stop. He stretched his legs and back, and practiced sitting as still as possible. This sudden through-the-roof-temperature phenomenon after a week of freezing rain was such that if he moved even a tiniest bit, he felt himself sweating, hot and sticky all over. On a separate note, a pounding headache was working its way around to his temple, and even a little movement triggered malicious retaliations. He figured that if he kept still like this, he felt slightly cooler. Saner.

He draped his arms on the bench shoulder and leaned back, eyes closed. Buses came and went, and no one bothered him. The sounds of bus engines and the hot rays on his skin brought a lot of fragments of images to float around in his less than awake brain. A bus and bus stops. Departure and arrivals, points in between. Sitting still when everything else came and went, passing, walking away. Left behind. Constantly. Alone.

He stopped there, and decided to think safer stuff. Like Tom Hanks and a box of chocolate and a floating feather (and hope, always too much hope, and way too perky and subdued at the same time, not really a thing for him in this mood). Almost Famous, a boy journalist and an insane rock band stuck in a bus together (extra points for the director, who also directed Say Anything--'She gave me a pen'--Jerry Maguire--'You complete me'--and Vanilla Sky--'Open your eyes'. Vanilla Sky, which Lorelai hated because of its relation to Magnolia Read: Tom and complained all the way through the movie along with Rory, who, in all her rights, looked and seemed more like Penelope Cruz than Cameron Diaz, but still discussed the merits of the suicidal blonde rather than existentialistic theme of the movie or the science--or science fiction--behind it. And he's really not sure he'd jump from building that high himself, conquering fear or not, and what if it was all dream? He's get his dream girl and so what if it's all fake--). People who waited for the bus that had not come for two years and the bus that left with Thora Birch in Ghost World (never read the comic book, way too refined for Todd the comic-man, so never really found its way to him but still cool, although he has this vague fright that he'll become like that Seymore dude, owning car pieces instead of the broken LDs, always looking, always searching for something they all know he can't get, and by God, he really knows way too much about movies and it's all Rory's fault because he's a very simple guy and does prize himself for it but she makes him do this circle thinking thing, and it's just unacceptable, not anymore, so he should throw out the DVD player of his house right away, and maybe hammer it down instead of non-existing cars--).

Strange day. Dean thought if he kept this up someone might come up to him and say--Life is like a box of chocolate, or, Open your eyes, or, I'm a golden god, and if he willed it, Cameron Diaz would be standing in front of him now, wearing nothing but that blanket from the movie (what? he is a healthy, normal teenage boy, for god's sake, and he has needs. Let his id have some fun since what possible excuse would be better than dehydration, not including intoxication because that has already happened before and he'd rather choose dying by drying up than dying by hangover, which, Rory can tell him, are in essence the same thing, and with one look at her small all-knowing smile he'd go tingly all over and just shut the HELL up!) he'd be a very happy man--

"Hi," she said softly (but not seductively, how disappointing), out of his dream.

Almost out of his dream, because after a long second of basking in glow, he realized Cameron Diaz had suddenly turned brunette, and her body was casting a shadow over him, and since his brain wasn't really clever enough to manufacture such a detailed dream that concerned with casting shadows by--my God, it was Rory.

He almost choked and passed out, right there.

His ex-girlfriend stood in front of him, uncertain whether to look uncomfortable or curious or shocked or to be here at all. The world was hazy and distant in every direction; only Rory was the constant.

"Rory," he tested the name just to make sure.

"Dean," she said, uncertainly.

Hallucinations rarely talked back. So...this was Rory.

She stood in front of him, beside the pole and right out from the bus, hesitant. Her hair glowed in dark amber against the sun, and her uniform... He looked up and caught the number of the bus that was just leaving.

Oh man. He restrained the urge to hide his face behind his hands. This was conspiracy, id and ego and the whole freaking subconscious revolting against superego, somehow bringing him here, to Rory's bench, just the time she'd get back from school. But excuse was excuse. He was here now, so he had to deal with now.

...And who cared about dealing? He desperately wished her somewhere else. Not here, certainly. If he blinked furiously, would the not-mirage of Rory go away?

Nope, she was still here.

Damn.

She wasn't gone. Instead, almost feathery, she sat beside him, a safe distance away from him. If she moved an inch to the other side, she'd fall off from the bench.

More buses came and went, and silence stretched into eternity.

"It's getting hotter," Rory commented offhandedly, in the unique way she had, after two more busses had passed by. He wasn't sure if the weather was the reason she was blushing.

"It is," Dean agreed.

"Very summery, 'cause it's almost...summer."

"Yes."

"Hot."

"Very."

"Because..."

"--summer, yeah."

The absurdity and stupidity of the situation made him chuckle. He and Rory shared a small, reserved grin, both looking elsewhere, never directly at each other, aware of the awkwardness that still existed but realizing it had just begun to thaw, even a little.

"The camellias, I saw them," she said. "You remembered."

"Yeah."

She stared at the seams of her skirt. "Thanks."

"It wasn't for you."

She met his eyes briefly; her blue eyes cooled him under the sizzling sunlight. "I know. So, thanks."

A cyclist passed. Two kids with cotton candies and a happy couple with bright hats and even brighter smiles walked away.

"You were right," Rory said, her eyes faraway. "What you said in the hospital. To get something new, I need to give up something. I thought I could integrate the new with the old, but I couldn't."

Oh no, please don't, he thought. This wasn't them. He and Rory never had this kind of conversation, not even when they were going out. Not the heart-to-heart, not the why-my-life-sucks tales. This wasn't them.

"Rory--"

"I thought I wanted to give up everything. But I love too much of this"--she looked around the town, her expression wistful--"to give them all up. Not Mom, not this town, not the old me."

Don't tell me any of this, he thought. I don't need this. He was hanging onto a very thin thread as it was to control himself, and he really didn't need this.

"I never asked you the right questions, did I?" she said. She was in her own world. "I talked, but I never listened. I didn't ask the important things. That's how you knew I didn't..." she swallowed hard, "love you."

This would never end, he thought. This would never end. She was so slippery, her thoughts and feelings, and just...her. They were always so ambiguous, perhaps because he knew her so well.

There was a long pause, and when she spoke again, she looked positively sick and her voice came out strained, as if just making words come out was a trying experience. "If I were to ask you to be my friend again, that I don't want to lose you, that like this town, whether the degree of love or not, you're important to me, and I'm not ready to go on without you, you--"

"No," he said automatically.

"I figured that," she said quietly, a faint trace of pain behind the voice. "Because it's too late. I know. It's too late. Too soon."

The most surprising thing of all was that he had seen this coming, had it figured out even before he had actually become aware of it. It frightened him now, because he wasn't a calculating guy, more like he didn't want to be, but there it was; the answer had been there long before. And when Rory spoke softly now, his Rory, smart Rory, having already figured out what the answer would be but still hoping maybe, maybe, he gave the expected answer.

"You're wrong, Rory. It's not me you need. You don't need me, you never did."

She wanted things to go back to the way it was, to the when everything she did automatically meant joy and happiness and acceptance from everyone she knew, the biggest fight she ever had with Lorelai never lasting for more than a day, and in that picture, Dean was there. Dean the first boyfriend, Dean the approved. The safe.

Whether Rory realized or not, that was what she wanted, something safe. Because something she craved didn't work out.

He wasn't going to be the substitute.

"What happens when you're finally ready to give up this way, this town, Lorelai, and finally move on, when you find something that's worth all this? I may not be as smart, but think I figured it out. I can't be in your life like that. Another addition to your picture-perfect past image."

Even if that meant the world of misery for him.

There was a rueful smile on her face. "How did you become so wise? You seemed to have grown up without me."

He closed his eyes, because she was beautiful, and he didn't want to see that. Just a brief glance at her expressive face and he would be sold. He didn't want that. He didn't want that so much that it ached. When he opened his eyes again, he saw something on her wrist. He sat up straight, feeling like he was suddenly hit by a truck.

"Rory..." he couldn't finish.

She hurriedly tugged at her sleeve, practically hiding the bracelet. "It's the familiarity thing," she looked away, blushing furiously, "I felt kind of...weird without this."

Too much ambiguity. He wanted to choke something to death, preferably himself.

"Rory, what do you want from me?"

"I just missed you," she bit her lip so hard that he imagined it might bleed, "I thought about this. I thought about this so hard that it just...God, it's too much. I...would like another chance, if you'd let me."

He sat there, couldn't move. His right arm was across the bench shoulder, and his right hand clapped over his mouth, unable to move. He didn't believe himself enough to let it go.

This was the dream stuff. On sleepless nights, he may have imagined this sort of things coming true. He may have imagined saying yes, oh yes. On sleepless nights, he would have stared at the ceiling and imagined Rory wearing the bracelet again, the bracelet he'd made for her.

Finally, he let out a long breath. "Wow. Your timing."

He thought she might just cry, just like this. "I know, bad. It's too late. I know that. I just...needed to tell you."

It was destined to end like this, he thought. Back to the narrative inevitability of a fairy tale that was told over and over at night with small details that transformed into something else but never the ending.

This story was something she was weaving, completely at her power. He hated it. He hated it just so much.

"You forgot something, Rory. You don't get to miss me."

She turned to him. "I--" she turned away, her face pale. "You're right."

Anger was built like sand in hourglass, simmering darkly underneath, patiently waiting for eruption, wailing for catharsis. "You truly have no regard for me, do you, Rory. You can't go backward. Just because you can't bear the consequences for the decisions you've made, you can't just go back to who you were and make things better, be the perfect girl you were. But about me? What about my goddamn heart that gets broken? Have you ever once considered my feelings? Once?"

Startled by the venom in his words, Rory reached for him, her hand in the midair. "Dean..."

"Did Lorelai tell you? Did she say-- Forget it. Forget everything. You broke my heart hundred times and over, but I kept coming back. But it was okay, because you always had me. Yesterday, you had no expiration date for me, you know that? You had no expiration date for me."

Rory's hand trembled. He was vaguely aware of this. Tears fell. He was vaguely aware of this, too.

Anger was cold and smooth, a silky scarf slowly wrapping and tightening your heart in a muted hiss, leaving you gasping for breath.

Until you were out of breath.

"I think," he exhaled, "there is no one who can make me this miserable but you."

"Dean," she said.

Dean, she said.

Dean, she said, as if the world was ending.

Somewhere far into his memory, he remembered hearing exactly the same word, exactly the same way. A long ago. When he'd first told her he loved her. She had said Dean. Dean. As if the world was ending. But she still hadn't told him that she loved him.

The single word. It was a descent. A slow one, by the feel of his skin, but fast, according to time. It was desolating. Frightening in its loneliness.

Dean, she said.

Anger was vicious, a monster tearing at you with ugly claws, leaving you bleeding and brokenhearted. Arising in every minute and every second when her eyes no longer smiled for you. You, who hid the bruise and scars with a stiff smile and a quick kiss on her cheek that no longer meant anything, all so long ago. All so long ago, before Tolstoy.

He would not set himself for another fall, because this would not end. This would not end.

"Rory," he said, before walking away, "I don't want to see you ever again."

The forecast said rain tonight. He planned a midnight jogging.

* * *

TBC...  
(This part was supposed to be therapeutic, but wasn't really. Now I need Tylenol, or, of course, feedback. ;))


	7. A Pendulum's Swing

Hello, everyone. I'm grateful and indebted to all of you still interested in the story that is taking way too long to finish. I like experimenting with styles, and this part, I have to admit, is the horrible result of four different drafts that have gone wrong. I had to stop at the fifth. So, apologies for this part. It's just that things must go down before they come up.

7: A Pendulum's Swing

* * *

No man dies of love but on the stage.  
-"Mansfield Park", Jane Austen

* * *

The rain was still in the air, the night was suffocating, and every part of his body was numb. When he breathed, there was a sound of bone grinding deep inside the cavity of his chest. Inside his chest, in his ears, in his head. He deduced that at least one of his two hundred-something bones had to be broken.

"Are you all right?"

It was a ridiculous question, especially in light of the fact that he almost died, twice, today. Dean answered nonetheless, "No."

He was a young man who hadn't reached his twenties. By default, he was supposed to think he'd live forever.

Forever was such a long word, and he was thinking about temporality.

* * *

Morning:

On the way to the school.

He had an interesting close encounter with a literal case of an anvil. Passing by Taylor's store that was going through a major reconstruction, Dean had been minding his own business, which mainly involved ordering his legs to move so he wouldn't be late.

Looking back, he might have heard someone yelling "Watch out!" but minding his own business had taken precedent over actually paying attention to what he was doing and where he was going. Only the slow motion syndrome from various movies he shouldn't have been watching had its toll, and a flash of image of an anvil with a rope swinging down at him like a pendulum hit him in a slow, panoramic vision. He could swear that it came to an inch away from his face before something pulled him down.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Are you all right?"

"Dean? You okay?"

"What fell?"

What fell, indeed. It took him a while to register, or to even just comprehend, why there was a sudden rush of activities around him or what the people were babbling about. What had fallen was one of the to-be metal components of the newly dolling-up version of Taylor's store, and instead of Dean, a garbage can met its demise. The only reason he hadn't been totaled seemed to be total luck--

"Use your goddamn eyes, why don't you."

--or not. Jess was in a similar squatting position behind him, grimacing and trying to dust off his pants. It look even longer for Dean to realize that it was Jess who had pulled him down at the crucial moment.

"My god, are you all right?" Someone who Dean should be able to recognize came up to them and tried to pull him up, saving Dean from actually trying to understand that...did Jess just save his life?

His head felt like a second before exploding, and it wasn't because that he could have shared the fate with the garbage can.

A crowd of people began to take over the morning street. Everything seemed a pitch off for some reason. Dean saw and brushed off the people who were fussing over him, all those people he should recognize but couldn't, not when...

He saw Jess, who by now was standing up and ready to saunter off.

It wasn't like Dean was going thank Jess for saving his life. Because he didn't like Jess, and that was never going to change.

Right?

"Jess," someone said. Dean almost turned around to see whose voice it had been, but he didn't have to, because it turned out to be his. It had to be the shock. It had to be.

He didn't expect Jess to stop, but Jess did turn around and met his eyes, half expecting trouble, and may possibly be enjoying the prospect of it. Jess and his standard posture--hands plugged in his pockets, a wrinkled and folded book stuffed inside his pocket, and the overall devil-may-care attitude--was already at place. But there was something else, too. Something disturbingly familiar.

Those dark eyes.

What are you thinking? Dean wanted to ask.

There would be no answer, and he didn't expect one.

In truth, they could do a lot of things together, like swapping notes on how-Rory-dropped-me subject. Had a lot to say to each other, and some of them didn't even require words and possibly have them end up in ER for the day. But this Jess, Dean couldn't understand. He knew preciously so little about Jess, and when Rory had told him about Luke's nephew with odd fascination in her voice a long ago, he honestly hadn't listened at all. And now he thought he didn't want to understand. He had no wish to understand. Just being Jess, casually ignoring people and the things that should matter...those things Dean could never understand. Not even buckets of beer would do the job in this case.

Yet there was this girl who had both of them.

Dean thought about Rory until the moment passed without letting out so much as a vowel and the upcoming crowd divided his space from Jess.

Dean thought about Rory when Jess walked away.

He thought he might just well have understood Jess.

The mentra was--she had you before, she doesn't get to have you again.

It was necessary to repeat.

* * *

A few minutes, or hours in his mentalscape, later:

Still on the way to school.

"Not as macho as I thought, and much less testosterone driven. I approve."

It was Lane, easily falling into steps beside him. Dean didn't want to talk to anyone to the extent that rather than actually speaking, he would voluntarily paint himself with a bulls-eye and wait for another anvil. But, this was Lane. Which meant she deserved to be talked to. So he asked, "What?"

Lane, either plain unobservant or deciding to ignore his curt mood: "You and Jess, having a moment. Of the 'We could potentially kill each other but since that wouldn't do any good why don't we just not bother' variety, and all that without a single word?"

"Ah." So Lane saw it, then. So, not so unobservant after all. "Well, it's not like beating Jess down to a pulp is gonna make me feel any less lousy."

"So it's a guy thing, only not really?"

"I guess."

Lane took a long look at him, then tucked her hair behind her ear and let out a frustrated sigh. "Why do people not tell me things? Seal their lips the moment I go near. Is it me? Did I develop a sudden syndrome that makes people compelled not to tell me things? Did I grow a sudden spur that says 'Don't Speak' in a bad, bad imitation of Gwen Stefani and I don't--"

"Lane, breathe," Dean ordered, and Lane stopped, exhaling loudly. It was becoming pretty much over-evident her sanity seemed to be quickly deteriorating from having lousy friends. "Hey," he grinned lightly, "did you just go Rory on me?"

Lane cringed in the way by all definitions should be classified adorable. "If by that you meant very non-subtly and pointedly, and also kind of undeserving-uh-ly, that I just went and turned everything about myself when it clearly wasn't? Yes. Sorry."

Slowly, Dean shook his head. "It's not you. You're a good friend. And...sorry."

Dean didn't think it would be enough, should be enough, for Lane, but she smiled. "Thanks."

The school was still two minutes away, and he still wasn't going to think about the anvil, the literal one and the metaphorical one, that had come his way earlier. He looked at Lane who wasn't all that great at hiding her thoughts from her face. Lane, who looked uncomfortable and insecure and concerned at the moment. He thought he meant what he had said, she being a good friend. So he said, "You can just ask."

A startled look on her face was of course expected, as well as the guilt tracing in her voice. "I wasn't gonna--"

"You can," he assured her.

"And you're not gonna bite me?"

"No biting."

Lane swallowed once, and when she began hesitantly, her voice was crawling back into the voice chamber, "Uh, you know, Rory actually did tell me something. And it was an abridged version if not abbreviated. And I'm kinda having a hard time believing it because that just sounds totally impossible even in Rory's love life standard that you, you know."

"Believe it."

Lane fell into silence, and he suddenly wished they would reach school faster.

"Are you really all right?"

Lane's question wasn't as intrusive as he had imagined it was going to be, and he was sure he wasn't lying when he answered, "I'm fine."

Her eyes searched him for a long moment. She commented quietly, "I'm your friend, too."

"I know you are."

"So you don't have to do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Push people away."

There was something about bystanders who read minds so accurately. This time it was intrusive, even though Lane didn't mean it to be that way, and he didn't feel like going to school any more.

"Come to think of it, I don't feel well," he told Lane, stopping on his track. "I think I'll just go home today. Could you tell Mr. Jones that I had a brush with death and had to recuperate?"

He didn't wait for her answer when he left.

She had you before, she doesn't get to have you again.

* * *

Noon:

Bus ride.

On his fifth round, he was about half way through War and Peace, which was either an impossibility becoming possible or he was skipping pages. Whichever it was, he had a plenty of time. He had been taking the same bus and going round and round, ignoring the looks the driver threw at him. He wasn't going to school today. No work today, either. He was blowing the day off.

He rarely skipped classes.

On the first round, crumpled in the seat, he had looked at the scenery until his eyes hurt. When he put his face against the glass window, the ripples of imagery glared back at him in reflection.

On the second half of the first round, he took out the books that had been becoming a permanent part of his backpack and read the crumbled pages.

He didn't understand. He absolutely didn't understand. The people in the stories were all lonely. Every single one of them. They all talked to each other to death, and even the least smart one spoke of philosophy. But when those stories boiled down to the hard precipitates, they all had the same problem. Yet no one understood each other. Nobody said anything, and if anyone did and tried to understand, then he was shut down right away. Such characters made no impressions on others, no reflections on the fact that they tried to make a difference. Nothing made any difference. No reflections. No trace of each other. But some of them tried so damn hard.

So he couldn't understand.

And he didn't understand why the words were suddenly strange and beautiful to him now. They evoked odd sensations from somewhere in his gut. He didn't understand why he was actually reading books. He liked living and doing things, and reading about the fictional (hence created, not real, fake) people who were having a very much better time than he was wasn't supposed to be a good thing. Just because now he knew what vicarious was to his skin, it didn't mean he was any less stupid than a night before.

But these books... He was reading books. Which meant she was everywhere. Rory was everywhere he looked, everything he did. He took after her now.

She was everywhere, and he hated her because, to her, he wasn't.

* * *

Sometime between sixth and seventh ride:

Somewhere between Stars Hollow and Hartford.

He got hungry, so he got off and had two hotdogs.

A postcard had arrived a few days ago. It was for his sister from a friend in Chicago.

He thought of Tristan.

The Sun Also Rises, on chapter 2.

She still doesn't get to have you.

* * *

Afternoon:

On the way home.

When the time was close to the recess hour of school, he went home, where his parents couldn't discuss his future with him and could not ask him about what happened with Rory, where his sister would still be growing up and trying on different lipsticks that looked quite frankly ridiculous on her. He stopped at the front gate. His truck looked so welcoming that he had to slip inside and feel it once again. His car didn't talk back, and it was always under his control. Always his friend. At least he could have this much.

He wanted to drive.

But not yet. He had to have a normal dinner with his family and pretended everything was all right.

He waited for the night.

* * *

Twilight:

Backyard.

His first love was a busted yellow Volkswagen with bumps and irregular scratch marks, family size and far from new, but always dependable and infinitely loved by the eight-year-old boy who had first learned to play with a real engine (albeit a broken one) when he was seven and drove for the first time (albeit very illegally) at nine. Before a brand new toolbox was found under the tree with a note 'With love, from Mom and Dad' in one Christmas morning, he had already experienced the engine hum underneath his skin, the vibration that spoke in length without a single word and explained what the perfection was. He had even learned what it was like to love the black smudges of the car oil that ruined his shirts every time. Dean at ten held the toolbox and thought this love affair was going to last forever.

Forever was such a long word, and he was now thinking about temporality.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Why aren't you making cars anymore?" Clara asked, sitting on a swing and her feet dangling.

The evening sun was sinking and sinking, and Clara's curly blond hair glowed like apparition as it reflected the last of the dying sunrays. Dean watched his little sister from the porch, taking in the summer breeze and the quiet scenery of their backyard without joining her. It had been years since the two of them could sit on the swings side by side; his legs were too long now that he would have to be folded just to fit in.

His tools had been left unused for weeks, rusting and eroding.

His sister, along with his parents, eventually noticed.

He had no answer to give. He said, "Want me to push?"

His sister's smile was brighter than the midday sun.

He pushed the swing gently. Clara would soon grow out of these swings as she had of barbies and crayons. She was already showing the tendency to lean toward lipsticks and perfumes over her stuffed animals. He hadn't decided how to take that just yet.

"Mom and Dad were talking about money again," she said, effectively omitting the word 'eavesdropping' on her method of gathering information, "something about, uh, loan payments."

"Really." Dean made a neutral, non-responsive response. For a reason. Because things like this reminded him that there always were real problems to worry about, not the overwought teenager angst over the dream that no longer made him happy or the expiration date that didn't seem to expire.

"Dean?" Clara asked again.

"Yeah."

"Are we in trouble?"

"No." Not yet, at least. So it wasn't a lie. Not technically.

"They said you're not gonna study engineering because we don't have enough money."

"That's not true." At least, it was not entirely true.

She turned to him, her small face filled with a serious expression. "Then tell me what is."

All kids, at once point, grew up to discover the universal fact: the world was not a rosy place and their parents would not protect them forever. The parents wanted to prolong the moment of realization as long as possible. He thought he didn't want that moment to come for his sister, just as he wanted her stuffed animals to stay instead of lipsticks and perfumes. Irrational, but there it was. Nobody said brotherly affection was supposed to be rational. But the moment he was dreading came at last, and the swing was too small for her now.

He stopped the swing. He came around and kneeled in front of his sister to meet her eyes.

"We can't afford another loan. Remember the loan for Dad's shop? And the mortgage for the house here?" She nodded gingerly and he, too, nodded. "We haven't paid them off yet. We're not in trouble, but we can't afford anything else right now. The money I've saved over the years...well, I can probably make it to community college. And I'm not smart enough for scholarship, not for university."

"But you're smart. You know everything about cars."

He almost smiled at her childish faith in her big brother that he didn't deserve. "Sometimes that's not enough."

She chewed her lower lips, thinking hard, trying so hard to understand.

Eventually everyone grows out of swings, he thought.

He couldn't bear it any more, so he ruffled her hair. "You see, that's why you have to study hard now, become smart. Then you can go to university and...do stuff."

"Like Rory?"

Strange. He remembered anger, what it truly felt like. It was supposed to simmer and boil, sizzle and prickle. Erupting the livid, scorching red-hot on the face and hell on breathing. He felt nothing now. Only his hands were cold.

"Like Rory," he agreed, a thin smile stretching over his face.

"But Dean," Clara's voice sank to an almost inaudible level, "don't you want to be an engineer?"

He thought about his busted yellow Volkswagen. How sometimes it just wasn't enough.

The first day on the internship, they had shown him the test-driving ground.

A week later, they let him use it, taking his fascination as his career interest.

Hammering down cars had become running like hell on countless nights; at some point, the running became stepping hard onto the gas pedal on midnight. He knew about the danger of the shiver that shot through his body when he pushed, pushed, pushed the pedal until he felt something snap in him, the shudder that was neither pain nor pleasure, but something he desperately needed nonetheless. Like reading anything that came to him, like chopping firewood for Christmas which was more than half a year away, like driving madly at night.

"Dean?" Clara leaned close and touched his nose with her index finger. "Is that why you don't smile any more?"

This wasn't temporal, he thought as his sister intently watched him. He loved her, and this wouldn't be temporal.

He touched her forehead with his, and smiled. "Ah, but see? A smile."

She giggled and placed a tickling kiss on his nose.

"Wanna go up high?" he asked.

She nodded eagerly, and he pushed the swing again. Her laughter filled the space they were in. Up and up. Up and away. The swing arched over the sky, coming in and out of the sunlight like a pendulum.

He hadn't stared into the sun that long, but there were sunspots in his eyesight. Blinked once, twice. Then gone. Not tears.

They shouldn't be temporal. His sister, the laughter, the twilight.

And how terribly cliché this all was. But he was a cliché boy by all accounts. Coming up with new and noble ideas to enlighten the world and increase the overall IQ of the humanity were something Rory would do, something that people like Jess or even Tristan might be able to do. Dean wasn't one of them. He was drowning in cliché, and he couldn't mind.

The only thing he did mind was that his sister grew up, the laughter died out, and the sun eventually set, taking out the light from the earth.

* * *

Night, still young:

On the road.

He drove on.

From the rear mirror, he saw the lights of Stars Hollow moving farther and farther away. They desperately beckoned at him, like the star from the town legend, but he didn't turn around. Light, light, but no port in the storm. His right foot pressed harder into acceleration, away. The speedometer was nagging at him like the loose shoelace that he always ignored and made him trip over, so he ignored it just the same.

There was no trace of him in her. He made no difference to her, no matter what she told him. He thought of meanings. She didn't love him at all. But that didn't mean anything.

PJ Harvey was blasting off his ears. The glass window rippled and danced with his own reflection.

And it was still dancing when he, from the edge of his eyesight, saw a red blur of something that shot through the dark road of the upcoming intersection like a bullet fired in light speed.

When the familiar hum of the engine became a shriek that begged for his intervention, the tires skidding and screaming against the asphalt with vengeance, he thought he could handle this, as he had always done. When the wheel slipped out from his hands, he thought, he could handle this. When a spot of violent red came to his view, like a slow motion anvil swinging toward him, like a pendulum, he thought, well, here we go again. Well.

When he actually stopped thinking, he imagined a situation. Him, in a hospital, surrounded by flowers and having a conversation, and her, with a tear-stained face running into the room.

"I must've loved you more than we both ever thought," she would say.

He would look up, surprised by her sudden entrance. He would have to look pale and sick, but grave and definitely cool.

She would proceed to his side, her expression a wreck, "You were safe, you know? Not at first, but you just became this safe, safe constant and I liked it, but it wasn't enough. Now that I know it was never safe, because I could have lost you any time. I thought, I thought... I must've loved you more than we both thought I ever did, because I thought...when I heard.. that I might never see you again--"

He would stop her tears by gently saying, "I believe you. Nothing else could make you abuse language like you just did." Because he would know, then, there was some reflection of him in her, a trace.

And he would smile, she would smile, and everything would be just beautiful.

The pendulum stopped eventually.

* * *

Time Indeterminate:

Somewhere on the road to nowhere.

He was awake now. Oh, yes, was he awake.

The outlines of things he saw through the windshield--not broken, he thought--were blurred and hazed, and the colors with distinct shades and different intensities were merged together, like a bucket with lots of paints mixed without a dime of thought. He had never seen the world like this. So clouded and dim, devoid of individual colors and shapes.

In this view, red stood out.

A metal pole with a bright red plate that read STOP. Something that the driver of that same red Mercedes-Benz had obviously decided to ignore. The red car had spun out from the road and its rear had disappeared into the side ditch.

When he somehow got out of his truck, between an airbag that had actually worked and the side mirror that didn't stay intact and began to make his way toward the Benz like a blind limp, he thought this was fitting. Poetic justice, or something.

Of course, this had been an inevitability. To be betrayed by what he wanted to trust the most. Repetition wasn't his thing, yet he just kept coming back.

The driver of the other car was unconscious. There was blood trickling down from the man's forehead. Not anyone Dean knew. Older. Bald. Drunk. Dean thought, absurdly, how car accidents were less likely to happen than the deaths by hyperventilation in Stars Hollow and whether it was an honor to set a precedent.

Dimly Dean remembered he wasn't supposed to move anyone who might have a neck injury. But the smell of gasoline leaked all over the vehicle, and he remembered the movies where cars exploded spectacularly. Then he remembered that was never likely to happen like this, and he actually knew things about cars so he should know better.

The man's pulse was beating steadily under Dean's fingertips, and only after hearing the man's groggy answer to his insistent "Are you all right?" Dean got him out of the car.

His legs gave away under him, and he thought he would fall from the face of earth. Breathing wasn't supposed to be this difficult.

He had to call somebody. He had to call--

The moon peeked behind the black cloud, half-lit the shiny road that reflected everything. The stars sparkled, carefree.

He was cold and wet, and he smelled the rain in the air. When had it rained? He remembered the freezing rains from before. The broken skies, the windshield practically attacked by pouring rain, the tires skidding and screaming against the asphalt. It felt the same now. The rain was the scent of earth and trees. Poignant and tangy, mind-cool and sweet and stuffy.

He'd seen in the movies and read in the books that the characters, in their fanciful mood, just lay down in the middle of the road, just like how he was at the moment. The gesture would usually have a meaning, fluttering toward liberation, something like that. He had wondered, fleetingly, what it would feel like. But there was nothing liberating about this. He lied down, not because it had some sort of symbolic meaning, not because it felt like something to do. Because it was the only thing left to do.

When a bunch of people arrived with flashlights and red, someone asked if he was all right.

He was most definitely not all right.

* * *

"Hey chief."

He should've been prepared. He should have been, but he wasn't. Currently surrounded by way too many flowers, Dean couldn't see who just walked into his hospital room, but her bright voice was a giveaway.

"Don't get up on my account," Lorelai said, as if he could actually get up from his position. She exchanged brief hellos with his parents and came to his side when they left him alone with her.

When she approached him, she had already taken in his sorry shape, his chest and the cast on his arm. "Wow, Dean, you look..."

"I know. The rumor of my death is greatly exaggerated." He had, by now, mastered the way of lightening up the situation when people came to visit him, not for others' sake, but for his own. Lorelai wouldn't fall for it, he knew, but he had to at least try.

Lorelai watched him, rather thoughtfully, quietly. A quiet Lorelai was a dangerous Lorelai, but she, soon, lightened up. She pulled away a case of video from her rather large handbag and tossed it on the bed casually. "I owe you this."

He picked it up, questioningly. He almost broke into a smile when he read the title.

"The Mummy Returns," she read for him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and looking mightily grave, "Thought you'd want to know how they turn the embalming god Anubis into the keeper of the death."

"Of course," he said finally, after debating whether to actually ask where she got her information and remembering that it wasn't a good idea to ask anything to Lorelai anyhow. "Thanks."

"Your rib?" she asked, her looks becoming soft and her voice gentle.

"Still broken. But healing."

She looked very maternal and almost un-Lorelai like when she said, "I'm very proud of you. You're the town's hero now."

And it wasn't something he wanted to hear. "As proved by the current state of me being stuck in this bed?"

"As proved by the current state of another man stuck in another bed who's probably alive because of you."

"Oh. That."

"You're being awfully laconic."

"It's the Jell-O."

"Yellow, red or green?"

He made a face and she smiled.

He said, "Embalming god Anubis?"

"Yep. Preparing us for our eternal afterlife. Very fashionable."

He said nothing for a long while. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the next door patient Daniel rolling and tossing on the bed.

Lorelai said, "You're a teenager. By default, you're supposed to think you'll live forever."

Dean had to ask, "You read minds, too?"

A smug smile. "It's another skill I've picked up among many when I traveled with gypsies to the New World."

"This is the New World."

"I'm bad with directions."

Another pause, and he said, "Richard?"

"Home, enjoying organic food."

"I think Emily sent me flowers. Those white ones."

"Hey, I chipped in, too."

Another pause, and Lorelai was fiddling with the things on the table beside the bed. She picked up a book, looking perfectly innocent. "Enjoying this?"

He had been wondering when she would ask, and he was actually relieved now that she had. "You can bring it back to her. I'm done. Tell her...thanks."

"Wow, that's it? Must've been some Jell-O." When he said nothing, she said, all fake smile, "Hey sport, you know what? There's a miraculous machine that lets people communicate with each other from, like, distances away. You don't even have to get up. Called telephone. You can use it sometimes. I actually feel generous enough right now to bring one up to you, and you can tell her yourself. Wanna?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"This book is several months too late."

Rory had come the first day he had landed on this bed, straight out from his imagination, with a book.

When he had asked why, her hand that was hesitantly fingering a lock of his hair, as if drawn by an incomprehensible power, as if she couldn't believe he was still here, stopped working. Her mouth opened, as if it could come up with some sort of an answer that she didn't have. Nothing came out. Silence settled between them like a feather softly falling from the sky, not oppressive, but frail and breakable.

Rory had acted the role of the mourning ex-girlfriend who realized too late her feelings so dutifully that he felt like applauding for her.

Dean handed the book to Lorelai.

"The last moment, I thought I could avoid the full collision. I was certain I had the control over my car. I knew I could turn at the right moment. It didn't work. The Benz hit my passenger side and spun out of control. Just like that. I wonder what might have happened if we didn't meet two years ago. If I didn't ask her to help me get a job, if she didn't yell at me about Rosemary's Baby, if she didn't talk about the round cakes. They say the good stuff outweighs the bad. Overall, even a bad relationship is supposed to be good in the end. You know, if I can take them all back now, I would."

Lorelai began, "Dean--"

"It's over."

Everyone grew out of swings.

His first love was a busted yellow Volkswagen with bumps and irregular scratch marks, family size and far from new, but always dependable and infinitely loved by the eight-year-old boy. Dean at ten held the toolbox and thought this love affair was going to last forever. Dean at sixteen took one look at the girl with amazing concentration and thought about forever.

Forever was such a long word, and he was now thinking about temporality.

No more swings for Clara, no more Dean for Rory. No more cars for Dean.

All very temporal.

* * *

TBC...  
(Things must go down before they can come up, things must go...)


	8. Coda, or Getting Over Your Breakup: The ...

Seriously, there are no words I can use to apologize for my tardiness. I really wish I could guarantee the quality of this part by the time I've spent purely on it, but I can't. Dean was being grumpy and Rory refused to cooperate for excruciatingly so long that I felt it was now or never.

Before you proceed, it'd be a good idea to reread the first seven chapters, and while you're at it, take a guess why PJ Harvey was bothering Tristan so much. Just a study question. ;)

* * *

8: Coda, or Getting Over Your Breakup: The Twelve Steps

* * *

Now is the time to follow through, to read the signs

Now the message is sent, let's bring it to its final end.

-PJ Harvey, "A Place Called Home."

* * *

#1: The "box" should be immediately thrown away.

The first time she had come into his room, she touched everything and read everything, like she had to discover everything about him, like she couldn't stand not knowing.

He had watched her exploration from the doorway, feeling oddly naked to have her in his room and knowing his obligation to supply all the necessary expositions ("That's from Chicago Museum, the very last summer spent in the city. That? My grandmother gave it to us before we left. Uh, that's from 5th birthday, hasn't been thrown away for a sentimental reason. Okay, now that belongs to the garbage..."). Her longest stops were at the bookshelves and the CD rack, where she examined the items with incredible concentration. The whole procedure was automatic, like a computer absorbing information, and he had to restrain himself from wanting to kiss her right there, right then.

"Do you like PJ Harvey?" she had asked, her nose cutely buried behind the CD case as she took in all the lyrics, her eyes mesmerized by the world of the words. When she saw him stare, her cheeks began to dye in pink. "Right, of course you like her, because why else would you have her CDs if you didn't, and here I am asking a question that has absolutely no real merit to be asked--"

"She's one of my favorites," he said, effectively stopping her tirade that she'd be soon embarrassed by. He was by then used to her incompressible leaps and bounds, and in a tingly mood, he hoped that maybe, one day, he would understand her completely and he would be very, very happy. "Her songs are rather bittersweet."

"Right," she said, nodding vigorously and still trying to find her footings in their new relationship. And probably hoping her foot wouldn't find its place in her mouth again.

He smiled at her impishly because he knew exactly what she was thinking, and because she could not make a mistake even if she tried. He adored everything she did, everything she said, and he'd accepted that it was just the way things were going to be. "You can borrow it if you want," he offered casually, making another excuse to see her again.

She looked down at the CD, contemplating it. Instead of putting it in her backpack, she played the CD right there. He knew the lyrics, he knew the sound, every little beat and meter, yet it was different because she was here. She was listening with him. In the mid-chorus, she took tentative steps toward him and, with one brave look, kissed him on the lips. The song of kamikaze sang by PJ Harvey was behind them, and it was like a ride on a plane diving into the dark blue pool of the sky. For the first time in his teenager life, he was happy to be who he was, kissing this girl.

The day he came home from the hospital, she came to see him.

"Hi," she said.

Her voice was resolute. It did not tremble. It carried through the garage yard with authority and strange confidence, and this wasn't the Rory he had seen at the hospital, or even the Rory he had fallen in love with. Determination was everything she stood for now, and Dean found it incredible that he wasn't turning to her in surprise.

Instead, he kept to his seat inside the only broken car left in this place that hadn't been taken away, his eyes still closed. If he kept at this, she had to go away. She wouldn't stay here waiting for him to acknowledge her when he was ignoring her in all intentions and purposes.

When he opened his eyes again, he could still feel her presence. When he turned around with a million seconds of hesitation, she was shivering under the pale streetlight in between the junks he had been cleaning up to empty the space.

The silence was long and stretched, and he focused on the fence beyond her frail shoulders.

"I was hoping," she said. The summer night breeze was warm enough, yet she covered herself with a jacket that seemed to protect her from everything else. "I was hoping that you'd speak to me again."

Her voice was quiet and loud at the same time, hitting all the right places and leaving him breathless. Rory still had this power over him, the power to make him believe, and this...this was ridiculous. Rory had liked the idea of him, but never just him. He'd bore her to death if he already hadn't, and they both knew this. Did they really need this encore?

"I'm not a charity case," he said. "An extracurricular project for when you feel like it. I'm done with that."

Silence. When he finally forced himself to turn to her, she looked stricken, bearing his words like salt on raw wound. "Right," she murmured softly. "Right."

Rory Gilmore had always been a creature of words, beautifully flowing words, but he was hearing none now. She watched him in a complete void for words.

The silence was a new thing between them, new and awkward and wrong in every single way that he could imagine, but he didn't hurry to fill up the silence. He had nothing to offer.

"I'm glad you're all right, Dean," she said.

He couldn't have reacted if he tried. No scars could be made on the already barren field. One more scar on the skin that was already covered with scars changed nothing.

He didn't look when she left.

/And he built a whole army of kamikaze.../

It was a stupid refrain that his brain had picked it up from his late night music sessions in the hospital. It refused to die.

/And he built a whole army of kamikaze.../

The song had ended a long time ago, but he heard it again now, as clear as her dimpled smile, as loud as the sound of her footsteps fading away.

That night, he put all PJ Harveys in the Rory box, sealed it. Too melodramatic, but he accepted it as a prerequisite for being a teenager. The proverbial last step to the end. The need for an epilogue. Drawing the last line.

The Rory box and his toolbox were thrown out that night, and he drew the line there. By the pure force of will, he didn't hear the song any more.

* * *

#4: The parental unit control.

"What's this?" Dad asked over breakfast, indicating a set of keys looking harmless on the table.

The summer vacation had begun while he was battling the cast, and now that he was back, Dean had no plan. He wondered if Taylor, taking account of the fact that he had almost been flattened by a metal pole that was now a component of his store building, would take him back as a storage boy.

"Dean?" Dad asked again, insistent.

Dean suddenly felt lightheaded, the focus suddenly lost. This whole thing, the plain act of sitting on this table and having breakfast, was surreal, and it was a definitely contributing factor to this swim into the empty abyss that seemed to have taken over his kitchen. He felt an odd urge to stand up and get the hell out, leaving behind the confused faces at all corners of the table. It was a pure restraint on his part that he didn't--and his drilled-in notions of family and responsibilities.

With effort, he orchestrated a nonchalant voice, "They're the keys to the garage yard."

"The garage yard?" Now there was a true puzzlement on Dad's face. Actually, it was on everyone's face. "Why?"

This had been what Dean had wanted, coming back, becoming a part of this again. And one thing about staying in the life he wanted? He had to work to get it. "You can use it for storage. I'm not using it anymore."

"But what about your truck?" It was Clara's turn, who had gotten out from the chair and made her way to him. Her self-proclaimed attempt at being less annoying after his return was a failing grade. "Aren't you going to fix it?"

"No." At their expressions, Dean strained to smile. "Dad, Mom, I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" The frown on Mom's face, one that had been permanently marked ever since his accident, became more prominent. "Dean--"

He stood up. He'd thought by now he should be ready to face the looks of confusion and disappointment. He had been wrong. Like many times before. "I gotta go look for a job today. May I be excused?"

He didn't wait for the answer. He walked straight to the hall and reached for the door that felt like miles away. But Mom was faster. Her hand was on his as he turned the knob, just a second away from opening the door and slipping into the outside that was not home.

"Remember the engineering school you wanted to go?" she asked, stopping him dead.

Here we go, Dean thought. He didn't want to do this so much so that it physically hurt him. He let his hand fall from the knob without turning to face her. "It was a long time ago, Mom."

"You still want to, though. I can see it, Dean. You never mentioned it after we'd moved to here, but you used to be dying to go, remember?" Her light question, tugging at his memory, was weighed down by concerns hinted at her feather-like touch.

"Not any more, you know that." Because he wasn't smart enough and it'd be a waste of perfectly good money. "I thought we...agreed on this."

"How could we have when we never talked about it? I know we were bad parents. If you wanted this, even just a little, we should've pushed you toward it. We should've been there to listen if or when you wanted to talk, and we weren't."

He could ignore the exasperation in her voice, but not the hurt. He faced her, but his eyes ended up tracing the tiles on the floor. "Mom, I'm your son. I know. I know you and Dad are trying really hard...and I know. I can make my way up from a college nearby. Worst comes to worst, Joe's Garage will always hire me. "

"Don't even kid about that, Dean."

The frown on her face deepened, and he wanted to look away. "What, Dad can work at the garage and I can't?"

"You can be so much more," she said with the conviction only parents could have over their children.

But he refused to be so much more. He didn't need to be. Such words echoed too much of what Rory used to tell him, Rory trying to make him something he wasn't all because she hadn't known him from the first place.

He hadn't wanted to listen back then, he wasn't going to listen now. He reached for the doorknob.

Her hand was on his shoulder again.

His mom had strong hands. She always had. But they would no longer hold him back. He lifted her hand from his shoulder and walked out. That was the end of the line.

* * *

#6: Exercise the art of not caring.

"Heard you're out," Luke said as he threw over heavy garbage bags onto the dumpster, by all indication sounding as if Dean was out on a parole.

Dean, wondering why he was saddled into helping out Luke of all people, grunted as he lifted another bag and passed it over to Luke. "Good to know you actually missed me."

"Well, Stars Hollow softball team has been on a losing streak ever since."

"Probably because it's never won?"

"That's very possible," Luke conceded.

Dean was rediscovering the time-honored truth -- absolutely nothing changed in Stars Hollow. This town didn't change, no matter how the people in it might change. The streets, the stores, the houses, the faces that smiled back stayed the same. This was what he'd banked on, what he'd needed. The singular life. Things that wouldn't demand him to be better, different. More.

Well, Dean was game with that.

After the garbage crises were evaded, Luke turned and looked, really looked, at him. "You okay now?"

Dean found it interesting that Luke wasn't just going away or, better yet, yelling at him. Luke had to have heard everything from Lorelai and should be hating Dean's every gut by now. "I'm walking, so I would think I'm okay."

"And looking for work." At Dean's surprised look, Luke explained, "Patty told me."

Well, guess it didn't take an hour for Miss Patty to spill the beans all over the town. "So?"

"Mind if I ask why you quit that fancy job with cars and all that?"

"Only if I don't have to answer."

"Fair enough."

That was one thing Dean liked about Luke: Luke never pushed. Luke leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and gave Dean a look that was either of contempt or pure blankness. "You might have heard, but I'm one man short."

Dean had heard, but the world knew that Dean was the last person Luke would be discussing this. "So I've heard."

"Wanna have a go at it?"

This was the first thing Dean had heard since the accident that actually surprised him. Or that meant anything. He tried to keep shock from his expression and failed. "You want me to work for you."

"You know," Luke shrugged, "what the hell. And Taylor never complained about you, which, as you know, was never the case for every other of his employees."

If this was supposed to be Luke's way of saying he trusted him, well, it was just plain Luke. Dean felt almost touched. "It's okay. Thanks for the thought, though."

Luke scowled. "What, you discriminate jobs now?"

"Taylor took be back again."

Luke straightened up and matched Dean's look with his. "Would you have said yes if he didn't take you back?"

"No," Dean admitted. "But it wouldn't be because I don't want to work with you."

Luke gave Dean an once-over and shrugged.

Dean looked at Luke who wasn't really going away, wondered what Luke's life must be like, and then thought again. Dean had his own problems with the song that wouldn't fade and the expiration date that kept coming back until he felt like throwing up. Yes, he was fine drowning in his own misery, thankyouverymuch, and he didn't need Luke's.

But the lines on Luke's face that Dean had never really noticed before now stood out like stigmata, the dark circles under his eyes going against even his grumpiest expression. Dean, unfortunately, knew the reason. The only problem in bringing it up here and now was that Luke probably didn't want to talk about it anyway.

Crap. And since when did he care what Luke thought?

"You miss him," Dean said bluntly.

Luke didn't answer right away, and Dean took it as hesitation. Was Luke going to lie and say no? Hell, why not? Everyone else did.

But Luke shook his head, seemingly at himself. "Funnily enough, yes."

"I guess he grows on you." Which only meant Jess Mariano shared many characteristics with fungus.

"I pushed him into a lake at one point. Now I kinda wish I hadn't."

Dean didn't actually smile at the image. Tempted, but no. "No you don't."

"No I don't," Luke agreed readily. He sighed. "I wasn't a good guardian. Not even a good uncle. Hell, everyone knew that. I guess he'd be happier where he really belongs."

Dean didn't like seeing hints of self-deprecation on Luke. It didn't suit him. It shouldn't suit him. "I wouldn't mind an uncle like you."

"Free coffee, huh?"

"Yep."

"And that's exactly why I would mind a nephew like you."

Dean smiled a little. This was what marked his relationship with Luke, a dry conversation that went on sporadically with erratic pauses that signified a strange brew of irritation and comfort. But Dean was beginning to hear a lot more in these moments of silence. It was easy to diagnose other people's illness, like the people in the books who were all lonely and believing that they made no impressions on others when they actually had. Dean wondered why the hell Luke wouldn't take his chance with Lorelai. He wondered why the hell Luke would have to be...like this.

Dean looked away. This wasn't his business. Didn't matter that he saw some of himself in Luke.

"If you want the job, it's open," Luke said after a stilled moment, before disappearing into the diner just as abruptly as he had appeared. Dean almost called out to him, to stop him, to reach out, to tell him what really mattered, to care.

But he didn't.

Next day, he went back to being the storage boy. The end of the line.

* * *

#7: Evaluating the next potentials.

"You look great," he said, not a flattery, not a lie. After all, Amanda always looked great.

"Of course I do. You, on the other hand, look downright dreadful," she remarked. She stood in front of the counter, where a pack of gum she was attempting to purchase looked terribly lonely.

He almost smiled. "An acute observation as always. Thanks."

She took a long look at him, from top to toe, searching and surveying him in one sweeping glance. "You can walk."

"Apparently."

"Then why are you not at work?"

"I am at work."

She stared at him until her stare became a glare. "What is it with you?"

Psychologically, pathologically or physically? Way too many answers. As much as he enjoyed the verbal spar with Amanda, silence seemed to be the most convenient answer. Or, a lie. "I don't know," he said. He wondered what he was doing exactly, talking to Amanda while Taylor's glaring at him from the aisle one. "But maybe you can find it out for me."

He didn't know why he'd said it, and it stopped him as much as it did Amanda. It took a long while for her expression to come alive again. "Really," she said.

He couldn't read Amanda, he'd never been able to, and he felt like tempting fate. "If I ask you out, will you say yes?"

"No," she said simply and effectively. "Were you going to ask me?"

He watched her. He wondered why he was suddenly like this. This cruel. "No."

"Good," she said, straightening her jacket. "Because, just now? I was an inch close to kicking your ass, and I'm in no mood to ruin my shoes."

She whirled on her heels so fast that he felt the air whipping across his face. She headed for the exit, and he stared at the lonely gum she'd been trying to buy left at the counter. He didn't have to explain himself to her. He owed Amanda a lot, but he didn't have to explain himself when he wasn't even sure what he was doing. He didn't.

But maybe he did. He wasn't so sure any more. "I'm no different, Amanda."

She stopped at the exit, turned, and smiled a little. "Sure you are," bitterness was only barely hinted in her voice, "And that's the damn problem. Get a grip, Dean. This isn't you."

So people had been telling him. "What was me before?"

She pretended to think it over. "Maybe a guy who decided not to lie to himself. It was pretty good to know you at that time. Now? Not so much."

Interesting, he thought. When he wanted to care, he got hurt. When he was trying so damn hard not to get hurt, he was hurting others. A truly no win-win situation. "Sorry to hear that."

She shrugged. "If you ask me again when you mean it, I might accept. Then again," she turned the knob and turned away, "I might not."

A flick of her hair and a faint smile later, she was gone. He told himself he'd call her at the end of the day if the empty space she'd left was missed.

It didn't, and he didn't call. He wanted it to be the end.

* * *

#10: Killing time.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The ax fell, and a log was chomped into two neat pieces. Dean stared at it for a second before rolling up the shirtsleeves that were beginning to hang loose and going at it again. Sweat formed on his forehead. The sun was too bright. He wanted sunglasses, but then again they would complete this ridiculous picture of him cutting firewood in the middle of summer and he wasn't sure if he wanted that. Anyway, he was almost done with this job. The next-up was his bike that was rusted and eroded from disuse. After that, lawn mowing. He didn't have any plan further down the road, but he was sure he could come up with more if he wanted.

It was like Zen something. He worked on the things that he'd missed, spent more time with his sister and friends. Smile as often as possible, take joy in little things, all the crap. Didn't really make him feel anything. He guessed that was the point.

"Too early for firewood, isn't it?" a voice joined in him in the backyard.

Dean suddenly wished he'd told his parents to bar all members of the Gilmore family from knowing his whereabouts, not just Rory Gilmore.

Thunk. Thunk.

"You probably shouldn't be doing that," Lorelai Gilmore commented casually when Dean didn't answer. "What with the recently broken rib and all."

Dean didn't turn around. "Thanks for the enlightenment."

"You're moping," she observed, stepping closer.

"I'm known to mope."

"Well, don't."

Typical Lorelai. Dean snorted. "You have no idea how that sounds, right? Behold, the great Lorelai wills it so, so there shall be no moping."

"Whoa, your snark-o-meter is bursting. With fruity flavour, the best."

Would there be any way to insult Lorelai? He had never been that good, would never be. Anyway, it wasn't his problem anymore. Dean only picked up a chunk of wood he had chomped without looking up. "What do you want, Lorelai?"

Silence. Busting of the dry leaves against the footsteps. "Car is your life, isn't it?" she said, her voice low and affectionate and a little too much bordering on pity that he felt instant hatred.

Dean straightened up, his grip on the ax tighter now. "If you didn't notice, I have a mother, Lorelai. I didn't ask you to be mine."

"Like I would even volunteer to take on another angsting teenager? This job sucks more than a blackhole."

"A blackhole?"

She tilted her head, one hand on her hip, and regarded him with an arched eyebrow. "So I'm low on witty snarks--everyone's loaning from me without permission, including you. Apparently."

Dean put down the tool, sighed, and turned around. Lorelai gave him a sunny greeting smile. He didn't return any. "Look, Lorelai, if there's a point to be made, make it. I have work to do."

She opened her mouth then closed it, apparently thinking against whatever jokes she would've made at his "work". Her eyes turned serious, her body straightened up. "Dean, I say this because I'm your friend. I see why it'd be hard to take that risk again--I know, believe me. But you were never a coward."

For a second, Dean was taken by the urge to laugh. "Wow, Lorelai, we're talking cowards now?" What was he to Lorelai, the lesser evil who would not get in her daughter's way, the one who would help paving her daughter's road to Harvard but never really get to have her? It'd be enormously convenient for Lorelai to have him around to safeguard her daughter from all the bad elements that would distract her from the path.

But he wasn't setting up for another fall.

Words, words, words. The words that had never been his friends now rushed out in the speed he had never thought possible. "How's your plan for your own inn with Sookie? How's getting something that might mean something to you for a change that's not Rory? Rory can't always be the one defining what you are and what you have to be, and you'll never be happy like this because your perfect daughter has to let you down once in a while. You must've figured that out by now, but I don't see you doing anything you really want. And Luke. What are you doing about him? You're that afraid of commitment that you have to push away your best chance at--"

"Are you done?"

Lorelai's face was perfectly expressionless, and Dean stopped. He didn't want to do this. If he had no obligation to listen to Lorelai's lecture on his life, then she probably had none to listen to his. But he wasn't going to apologize.

There was no trace of him in Rory. He made no difference to her, no matter what she told him.

Lorelai let out a long breath and shook her head ruefully. "Wow, twisted. And bitter. And feeling sorry for yourself. Not that you don't have a good reason for all that, and okay, it is the prerequisite for a teenager, but Dean, this doesn't become you. This you is unhappy."

Dean didn't react. The sunlight stung his eyes.

"You're right, Dean. I'm not your mother. And obviously I'm not even a friend to you at this moment. But what I am is the one who can safely call on your BS. Yours and Rory's. Sure, I'm not gonna deny that it'll make me happy to see you two back together, but it's not up to me. It was never up to me. But now, you're just making yourself miserable. If you don't want her any more, then fine, go your way. I'll sprinkle buckets of rose petals to send you on your way. Rory has learned her lessons and she'll just have to deal. But if you can't, then take your goddamn chance and stop moping. This is not you. This Dean is really not cute. He's irritating and no fun and believe me, this isn't you. So do every one of us a great favor by either taking your chance or moving on."

He watched her. Lorelai's every good intention glimmered in her eyes like the mirror in the sky. The sun still sizzled.

"I totaled my car and broke a rib over her," he drew out the words, enunciating them, engraving them, just to hear them. "Next time, I'm afraid I might break much more than that."

Lorelai flinched slightly, unwinding her arms that had been crossed against her chest. "I'm sorry, Dean. I--"

"I think," a new voice interrupted their scene, and Dean didn't turn to see his mother, "I think it'd be the best for you to leave now, Lorelai."

Lorelai's expression shattered. She bit her lip and nodded. Dean didn't see her go. He looked away.

The steps on the dead grass faded away, and he said, "Thanks, Mom."

His mother stopped just across him, taking the spot where Lorelai had been seconds ago. She looked wistful. She looked old. "But did I do the right thing?"

"Yes. No. I don't--" his words stumbled.

Bitter and twisted?

So what if he was? Everything was so easy to ignore if you didn't care enough.

A hand was on his arm. His mom had strong hands. She always had. Yet her touch now seemed so light that he suddenly wondered when she'd turned this small, this frail.

"Don't be a ghost, sweetheart," she whispered. "Never be a ghost."

His mom's hand was so frail, so, so frail.

Maybe some things didn't stay the same. Wake up next day, and you'll be all the things you never wanted to be.

And what were you now?

It didn't end.

* * *

#12: Sometimes you just need a kick in the head.

It was one drowsy summer afternoon, when the sun was blazing down and no escape of cool breeze was to be found.

A postcard arrived.

* * *

#0: The End

The sound of the bouncing steps died at the door. The door creaked open. Her hands, on the doorframe, dropped. Her fingers were knuckle-white. Strains of her hair cascaded down to her shoulder. She looked warm. She looked sad. She looked beautiful.

He stared at the doormat, words swirling in his head but not exactly thinking anything. There were many reasons for and against standing here, but he would not return to the empty garage yard that mocked him. Never again. In the end, the decision to knock on the door was mostly based on the fact that he could simply no longer stand in the rain, in the dark, like this. So when she moved to the side to make a room for him, he followed her in.

The door was closed, and the sound of raindrops faded into stillness.

She looked up, only glancing at his face as if he'd disappear if she fully stared at him.

"You're wet," she only noted, as if she was afraid to say anything more.

His hair dripped of rain. Raindrops fell onto her floor.

Her hand reached up, stopped a second before touching a lock of his front hair. "You're gonna catch a cold."

She was worried. He didn't want her to be. "It's okay."

"No," she said, her voice breaking. "It was never okay. Only I was too slow to notice it."

This time her hands made up to his arms, imprinting her warmth on them. She led him to the couch, seated him and wrapped him with a blanket. He basked in her warmth. It was drowsing.

She moved away to reach for a towel, but he stopped her with his hand on her arm. She froze.

"Were you happy?"

The look of her pale face would shatter into million pieces with a single touch.

"Did I make a difference?" the words tasted like sand, but he let them out. This would be the last time he would say. "I didn't know how much of me you had in you. But Jess...he made you happy. He had you."

"I lost him, but I'm doing okay. I lost you, and I wasn't okay. I don't think I will be."

The logical side of his brain was telling him it was the guilt talking. Not the real Rory.

But in his jacket pocket was a jaded postcard that told him otherwise.

He was too tired.

He slowly leaned against the couch, rolled up his legs.

For a long moment, she stood still, as if she was counting the raindrops falling outside. The rain didn't stop, and eventually she made into his side, every step tentative and brave.

"You're too tall for this couch," she said.

He laughed.

She sat beside him, and they listened to the rain. At one point, his arm made around her shoulders. She pulled him closer, her cheek resting on his shoulder. He turned his head and rested his chin on her hair.

"It occurred to me I never told you I was sorry," she said, when the rain stopped and the night eventually ended. "Dean, I am sorry."

Her hand reached up and touched his face. Like that very gesture explained everything.

It felt so complex, so painful, so beautiful. The numbness dissipated, and something hot overwhelmed him. The hot lump came up to his neck and burned away everything that he could have said. No words.

The line ended there.

* * *

"I woke up and you were gone. I...I was afraid."

Rory stood in the garage yard like Cinderella who'd run out here after the clock had struck, the magic vanished, exposed and vulnerable. The sun was rising in many different colors just beyond her shoulders. A new day began.

"I knew you'd know where to find me," he said, looking up from a mountain of junk he had piled up to sort out. He wiped off the grease streaking on his face and grinned.

"I did. It's just that..." she trailed off, her calm from the night before apparently disappeared.

He waited.

"I just need to tell you something." Her steps lingered on the edge of the pile. She circled it around several times before she absently picked up a piece of metal and put it down. She turned around again, her fingers nervously entwined.

"Rory," he said gently. "It's all right."

She stared into his face. Maybe looking into his soul for the first time, maybe not. It didn't matter any more.

When she spoke again, the words had come back to her again. Her beautiful words. "I want to know you. I want the last thing you say to be something other than a goodbye. I want to be here with you, if you let me." She paused. "And you? What do you want?"

He thought he might have been waiting for that question all along.

He remembered the nights of futile running. He remembered the nights here, at this place, with a friend who hadn't known his worth. The friend who had now found it.

In his jacket pocket were the two tickets to an outdated PJ Harvey concert that had arrived with the postcard.

Two crumbling tickets of PJ Harvey. This much of him, she had in her. She had had a part of him in these two battered pieces of paper.

The answer had always been here, eady. It always had been.

"I want to fix my truck. And I have a convertible to build." He turned to her. "Build it with me?"

He reached out his hand, for her to take. She, with tears in her eyes, took it.

"Yes," she said.

The sun was bright, so bright that it brought tears to his eyes.

* * *

End Part 8

(Epilogue, a shining day after the flood of rain, coming up. Huge thanks to John, Jessica, Priya and many others whose continuous feedback actually got me sit up and write again. There is no way this part met the expectation, but I hope it didn't fail terribly.)


	9. Epilogue: The Chairs of Your Soul

Epilogue: The Chairs of Your Soul

* * *

At last I know what love is really like.

-Virgil 

* * *

Rory Gilmore was a girl who knew what she wanted.

Ever since she was a baby, when she was covered with the Harvard sweatshirts instead of blankets like everyone else, Rory had known what she wanted. And she was fairly sure she'd gotten everything she wanted.

Lately, her lucky streak was failing to hold.

Lorelai Gilmore declared a night of watching every single movie with John Travolta, so Rory was subjected to the torture of watching Grease, Face-Off, Battlefield Earth and so on. Rory didn't make a pip about it, however. After all, she was still on her mother's good grace after failing to be there for Grandpa. And Jess...

Okay, so maybe watching such movies were better than thinking about him. And how she'd let him leave.

Three hours later, she was actively contemplating several possible ways of reading The Aeneid while pretending to watch the movies. It was just then the scene in yet another Travolta movie began to catch her attention. Where John Travolta was buying dozens of the chairs that the woman he loved had made and piled them up in his house.

"I didn't buy his chair," Rory said, the lightning insight doing nothing to lessen the shock.

Lorelai, leaning lazily across the couch, popped popcorn into her mouth. "Of course you didn't, 'cause why would you--huh? What?"

"He bought my chairs for me and I didn't buy anything for him. I didn't buy a thing. I didn't buy--how could I be so bad, bad, bad? I didn't understand him. I didn't even try to understand him, just because he didn't really ask me to."

"Since when Jess built chairs?"

Rory felt like burying her head into the thickest part of the earth's crust and not coming out. "I'm not talking about Jess."

Lorelai understood then. "Oh honey," she sighed and pulled her closer. "It's not something you can force yourself to do. You didn't love Dean. You thought you did. You liked him. But maybe not loved him."

"But he loved me. And I should've tried."

"Oh Rory, don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, it's not like Dean was being all mysterious and cool like Jess and begging for your attention. It's understandable."

Rory's head snapped up. "What?"

"C'mon, think about it, Rory. You looked at Dean, you didn't really think about some deep issues he has to have himself. You thought, smooches. Good for attending dances and lifting water bottles. It gets boring. You don't think about issues, passions, intellectual discussions. Only natural you went for Jess. Good for you. Go Rory. Good job."

"Mom."

"I mean, come to think of it, you made a great choice. Dean, except that body and all, nothing much there to--"

"Mom!"

"Oh. Sorry. Anyway." She turned her attention back to the movie screen, where John Travolta began sudden demonstration of telekinesis. "That's really a neat trick, though I'd want to rotate something cooler than a pen. We should stare at the night sky more often. Who knows? There'd be a bam and--"

As usual, Rory suppressed the urge to shake her mom, hard. "Mom, why didn't you share that shattering insight before I made all this mess?"

"Not like you asked for it, did ya? It's not as if I had years of experience on failed relationships and am an expert on the matter by now." Then she softened, her expression serious and wistful. "And you would've thought my advice was sprung from my Jess-hate. And you wouldn't have been completely wrong."

"God, what do I do now?"

"Well, think of it this way, it would be hardly the last mistake you'll make."

"Comfort, Mom, comfort here?"

"Hmm, comfort. Let me think. He, uh, still loves you?"

Rory blinked.

Lorelai cringed. "You know, maybe I really shouldn't have said that."

Rory, half in hope and half in despair, calculated the statistic impossibility that Dean Forrester could still be in love her.

And then the car accident happened.

She saw him on the bed in the white-plastered hospital, and for the first time, she realized she had never really known what she wanted.

"You were safe, you know? Not at first, but you just became this safe, safe constant and I liked it, but it wasn't enough. Now that I know it was never safe, because I could have lost you any time. I thought, I thought... I must've loved you more than we both thought I ever did, because I thought...when I heard.. that I might never see you again--"

She might have broken his heart many times before, but her heart really broke over him for the first time, when her mother brought back the copy of The Sun Also Rises. 

* * *

She still remembered Jess, the fever of kisses. Oh, the kisses that burned against her lips. Did she miss him? Maybe. Honestly? Yes.

She couldn't miss Dean. He was everywhere, yet she didn't have the right to miss him. He'd been a mystery to her before, when all she could think about was the new boy with dimpled smiles and long legs and how he smelled incredibly good. He had thought she was special, an ego boost that enveloped her every time he watched her adoringly.

But Jess appeared just when Dean no longer seemed like a mystery, and Jess was extraordinary. And she had thought--it wasn't such a bad thing to start talking with him, right? Just a talk. In denial with a big D. But if she'd actually considered the chance that she might be in denial, how could she be in denial? People in denial didn't actually wonder whether they were in denial. So she wasn't. Good. No denial, then.

But everytime she saw Dean after Jess, she had thought of the Dog with Two Bones and went, oh, I can't. Then Dean went on and smiled for her, and then she thought, he's beautiful. He was a beautiful, beautiful boy, and that hadn't changed ever since he talked about Rosemary's baby and she talked about round cakes. But that was as far as it went.

She wanted something extraordinary. She wanted to be extraordinary, like the novel extraordinary, because she was well-aware that she might as well drop into the sea of the ordinary if she didn't.

She just hadn't known how to see extraordinary in smaller things.

But it was too late. She was reminded of it every second when she walked by his garage yard, knowing she wasn't wanted.

Too late.

* * *

He looked tired. He looked sad. She wasn't egotistical enough to believe it was all her doing, all his hurt, but she knew enough to be responsible for parts of it.

And even though he was standing right in her house, even though this was right out of her imagination, her best scenario of to forgive and forget, she lost all her words. All she could think was that she hadn't known him, layers after layers. He was getting impossibly taller, impossibly falling away from her and what if she couldn't catch up? One thing she never had to worry about was her inability to catch up with anyone, and she was worrying -- what if he becomes taller and taller and she falls behind?

Before she couldn't even say the mere 'I am sorry'?

But there they were. She was sorry. Because she hadn't known.

And because he had.

Her hand, defying all her command, reached up and cupped his face. His cheek had a bit of stubble. His skin was cold. But he didn't pull away.

She fell asleep listening to his steady heartbeats.

When she woke up, he was gone.

But the warmth was still there.

* * *

She found him where she expected him to be. In the garage yard. And stupidly, regrettably, this was the first real time she was seeing him doing what he loved to do with all his heart. The first time, she thought, she was going to buy his chairs.

He smiled at her then, his face streaked with grease and his rough hand right there for her to take.

The sun rose in so many colors it broke her heart.

* * *

"You could shut up," Luke suggests hopefully.

Lorelai sneers, "Or you could so obviously be hearing the Four Horsemen of Apocalypse at your door."

"Could you please do shut up? I'm trying here, to--" Luke stops, as if looking for words.

"To kiss you," Dean supplements innocently from their bystander side. Rory, her hand in his, watches the history unfold in Luke's Diner, where every customer is watching Luke and her mother argue. Not that the sight of them arguing is anything new. Except:

"Yes!" Luke leaps at the word, "To kiss you."

"Really," Lorelai says.

"Really!"

"You better make it a good one then, mister, because I've been waiting for that to happen for far too long not to kick your ass if you don't."

"I better!"

"Yes, you better!"

"Right here!"

"Right here!"

"You know there are customers here and your daughter is watching right here!"

"Thanks for the enlightenment, because I so didn't know that we've been indeed standing and yelling right here for the last ten minutes!"

When Rory is beginning to think enough is enough, Dean takes the initiative and takes her hand to usher her out. "We'll get going then," he said loudly, although Rory doesn't think anyone notices, "Enjoy the kissage."

The moment they get out, Rory can't contain her grin that spills out from her chest. "You know, I think I'm going to do salsa dance on Luke's counter to commemorate the occasion."

"I think I'll pay to see that."

She slaps his arm lightly. "Free admission is not appreciated, so pay up."

"Well, I can think of a few ways." He doesn't do coy well, but he's cute when he tries.

They walk across the streets, and for a long moment, she owns this, this everything that she has. Perfectly content, something she used to think as bland and unchallenging. Now she appreciates it with an odd sense of desperation.

Dean pauses as they pass the softball field. Rory looks up, curious, and sees why.

"Amanda," he says.

Amanda MaCall stands across them. If she's startled, she doesn't show it. "Dean," she replies neutrally.

Rory has heard about what they had before, so she tells herself it's not entirely unjustified to feel threatened by Amanda's long blond hair and sparkly outfit and too much understanding that suddenly seems to exist between them.

Amanda, after a pause, steps aside. Dean doesn't smile, but Amanda does. "This is better," she says.

At that, Dean, too, smiles.

After Amanda is sufficiently out of earshot, Rory complains, "You looked at her funnily."

"I did not."

"You did. You had that look."

"What look? I don't have any look. I'm blank."

"Exactly what I'm talking about." She pouts.

"Are we seriously having this conversation?"

"Yes."

He looks totally exasperated and clueless at the same time. "Why?"

"'Cause I always wanna play the jealous type and I'm blessed with you, who's actually the type that never wanders so I have to at least fake it?"

He's suppressing a smile. "You're peculiar."

"But you love me."

"How can I not?" his answer is teasing, bordering on joke rather than truth, and it's clearly intended to be light without any seriousness. This is how they've been so long after all.

"I do, too," she says, after a gulp of air.

"Love yourself? How egotistic of you."

"You. I love you," she says, bravely ignoring the heart that's about to burst out of her chest. It's odd, this sensation. She can clinically diagnose herself that this shouldn't happen, not after she's practiced to herself for a week. It isn't as if this was her first time telling him this. She's told him this before, a long ago, not entirely meaning it as how she should have.

But it's been almost a year since they built their friendship again, and her statement doesn't seem to affect him at all. If anything, he stares back at her without any change in expression.

Maybe he isn't ready to hear this after all? She feels blush seeping into her cheeks and panic into her chest that's knotted into a tight grid.

But then he catches her hand. He smiles at her and when she smiles back, and it's all over.

* * *

She flips through the vocabulary list. There are others books, her books, on the blanket that covers only a patch of the garage yard. "Okay, 'perfidy'?"

Dean grunts under the car and struggles a little with a part that refuses to be fixed. "Who uses that kind of words? Wrench, size 2."

"Well, SAT, for one. Which one? The round one?"

"Yep, that one. Perfidy. Noun. Meaning treachery."

"Okay, what about 'recalcitrant'?"

"Adjective. Disobedient." He pushes out himself from under the car briefly. "What are we in charge of again for today?"

She tries to remember the list. "Balloons. Lots of balloons. All pastel. Oh, and I need to go at least two hours early."

"Needs that much time decorating?"

"Nope, gotta make myself pretty."

"That's something you never need to do."

A causal statement, but it's still making her blush. This isn't good. This is like she's suddenly turned into her sixteen year old self when everything was blush-worthy. "Well, and I gotta help Lane dolling up. Dress to impress."

"Dave?"

"Dave," she confirms.

"He's nice," Dean approves.

"Mmm-hmm, I agree. I have to tell you something."

"Good or bad?"

"Bad. Very bad."

He braces himself. "Shoot."

"Um, Mom insists on baking pies for the party."

"She can't," he says with disbelief. "Is she really doing it?" Rory nods gravely. "Oh man. Casualty?"

"Three plates, two flying pans with grease that just won't come off, and two ovenware. Plus various disposables. She's in the phase when she's very insecure about her domestic ability. Hence she's out to prove that she can indeed be a housewife when she's willing. Our dishwasher's being punished for our sins even as we speak."

"You probably need to go rescue the kitchenware before Lorelai destroys them all. I'll take care of the balloons."

"You sure?"

"Of course. And I'm ready to see you in a dress."

She quickly plants a kiss on his nose. "See you soon, then."

She gathers her books and generally attempts to tidy up. One of his books falls, however, and two pieces of paper land on her lap.

She's about to put them back when she really sees what they are. She does a double take on two crumpled pieces of paper. Two tickets for an outdated PJ Harvey concert. They are familiar, and this can't be familiar. She turns to Dean. "How? I mean, where did you...?" Puzzlement and short stop her breath short. "How did you--?"

"You know what they are?" he asks, but she can tell from his mischievous eyes that he already knows the answer.

"Uh...I think I do."

"I'd like to know," he says, with all the sincerity. "Tell me?"

Drat, she thinks. Now she actually has to tell him. "Uh, um. Do you remember the guy from Chilton? This guy, uh, you know--"

"Tristan?" he supplements.

"Yes, well, I wasn't sure I was allowed to say his name again after..." she trails away, flushed. "Well, so, Tristan, like a very long time ago, sort of asked me to go with him. To this concert."

"And you didn't go."

"No. That's when you, uh, came to me to Chilton that summer. That time, when I told you--"

"That you loved me."

"Yes." She's blushing profusely at this point.

"Hmm, interesting," he states thoughtfully, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

"Dean."

"Mmm?"

She mock-glares at him. "Where did you get these?"

"A friend. He saved my life once. This," he points the red convertible he's working on, "is the least I can do for him."

"And where did he get these?"

"You can ask him when he gets here for the party today."

He isn't talking about the one she thinks he is talking about, is he? He can't be. Right? She tries to remember Tristan when she last saw him. And she sees Dean in front of her. Impossible. "You're having a secret," she pouts. "That's not allowed."

He smiles then, all his face cracking because of his smile. There's a bit of grease on his fingers that touch her cheek when he kisses her, but she doesn't mind.

"See you soon," he says. The taste of his lips, just like the sense of comfort and happiness that bubble up in her heart, lingers in the air around her.

Smaller things, small, extraordinary things. They are to be savored like a book that she doesn't want to finish. Books. She used to think of life as numbered pages of a single book that will end, with designation and goals. She had a Dean. She had a Jess. Like her own rite of passage. And now...

Now, her book is about all blank pages. To be written. The I.N.G. The present tense. Cliché, but this way, she can be as happy as she can.

Yep, she can handle a few secrets.

* * *

They lie on his bed, him reading SAT scorebook and her reading Camus.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" she asks, teasingly, when he puts down the book and leans forward to kiss her.

"I'm appreciating Tolstoy," he murmurs against her lips.

She is happy.

* * *

Happiness

A state you must dare not answer

With hopes of staying,

quicksand in the marches and all

the roads leading to a castle

that doesn't exist

But there it is, as promised.

with its perfect bridge above

the crocodiles

and its doors forever open.

--Stephen Dunn

* * *

THE END

Note:

I cannot believe it's actually done. I had no idea this story would take such a long time and a lot of effort when I began to write it with the bare ideas of Tolstoy, PJ Harvey, a car accident, and Tristan with his postcard. It just became longer and longer as Lorelai, Lane, and Luke wanted me to make rooms for them and Dean wanted it to be his life tale, not a just Dean/Rory story.

I have to thank a lot of you for sticking with this fic for such a long time, for supporting me throughout. I hope all of you had fun reading this as much as I had writing it.


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